Frayed and torn,
Like an old pair of pants,
Is friend Adolf‘s Third Reich,
Nazis find it distressing.
Through the holes, the wind is whistling
From the East, from the West,
It‘s no gentle spring breeze,
And even as the SS tries
To delay the downfall,
The curse is inevitable,
And the attempt is in vain,
All those who love the Führer
Are destined for perishing,
Fading away into dust and mustiness,
For from the Rhine and from the Oder
The new era is approaching.
Your German soap bubble
Has burst and shattered,
Your cities turned to rubble,
And the once ecstatic state,
We say since June 40,
Is thoroughly over now,
Hitler, Göring, Göbbels, Ley,
And many other bigwigs
Will sometimes grab their throats
And say, Oh, my luck,
Why have you abandoned me,
The only prospect is the noose.
Every hope is damned,
Destiny will take its course,
And the bigwigs are left with doubt:
Shall we hang ourselves?
Shall we wait for the executioner,
Who on an open cart
With a worn-out horse
Will soon take us to the gallows?
One hundred thousand Nazi souls,
Including the principal,
Ask themselves: What should we choose?
He who has the choice, has the torment.
Post-Editing: Hanny Veenendaal
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