A poem by Tadeusz Borowski, for the weekend:

'for Witek Piatkowski
They beat him all day, and the next. Nothing doing.
They beat him 'round the clock, all week.
'Talk, talk,' they shouted, 'we know everything!
We know your alias! And your name!'
They showed his ID, banged his head on the table.
'Say just one sentence! just one word!'
They showed him his passport, foreign visas,
books and secret documents from the lining of his suitcase,
but then when they showed him his English tommy gun
he said, 'take away the tablecloth, I'm going to throw up.'
That's all he said. He was black and blue.
They took him to Majdanek, locked him behind the wire.
At night he cut the wire, escaped right under the sentries' eyes.
What use is glory if this memory dies?'

His sense of humor, the relentless irony shine in his poems as well.
Borowski never lets you down.