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.