According to this prompt I'm supposed to write a poem about a paper boat on a stormy sea or something, but I'd rather write a poem about Dmitri Shostakovich and his hilarious Ninth Symphony. You see, nine is a magic number for composers; ever since Beethoven wrote his one they all think it's the divine number. But when it came time for the Russian hotshot Shostakovich to write his ninth there was more at stake than just his legacy. Russia had just beaten the Germans in The Second World War and Stalin wanted something big and bombastic to celebrate victory and announce to the world the military might of the motherland; full of parade ground drums and the trumpets of triumphant war. Something for the infinite Red Army to march to. But such words in the ear of an artist do...