Torment of the conscious

Every day when I get up in the morning, oh God,
As I take soap in my hands,
The KGB comes to my mind,
For stealing my soap in plenty
And the promise I made one day
if I am freed
I will send you soap
So you can wash your hands,
Your intentions, perhaps,
Couple of times a month at least,
Alas, in foreign lands,
I’m left without keeping my word.