Pity Me, Or On Second Thought, Pity Them
What can I do?
My brethren - Dank. We are
not fit to wipe the asses of
these sons of the star of David -
and yet, we crush their horrid
corpsed lives beneath Nazi-issued
boots. We want to live, too.
Say I actually approach my
officer, pout, give him my best
spiel, if you will. His hand will
grope the trigger faster than the
breasts of his sweetheart in
Barrack Neun during a roll call
hooky.
So I plug my rounds,
rotate a new traincar through
every Montag and Freitag.
And when I sit down to table
with the uniformed prison guards,
I take an extra drink -
and drink to forget.
This poem appears online at http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/07/pity-me-or-on-second-thought-dont.html.
Copyright © Kelsey May | Year Posted 2014
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