but you are American spy”
The spy pulls out his accordeon and plays a wonderful Russian folk song, everyone in the bar tearing up, including the barkeep.
“You sing like Russian”, he said under tears, “but you are American spy”
He starts dancing the Kozachok, worthy of the Bolshoy dancers.
“You dance like Russian, but you are American spy”
“Ok, you got me. But how do you know?”
“There are no black Russians”
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