Poem of William Hermanns

                           Poor Hitler

Poor Hitler, you addressed some twenty men -
not all were hoodlums, I was listening, too.
It was in Munich, few years after war,
mouth foamed, eyes wild, emotions stirred and sore.
Did memories this? Your father came home drunk
to lay your mother - this in front of you.

And more: Your father, bastard of a girl,
who worked in households. O, that smear, that curse!
Could she not have been laid by an handsome son
of Jewish parents? "Damn it! Must I shun
this world? I shall get to the top and woe
who has suspicions. Hell shall pull his hearse!"

Could you trust Himmler, your Gestapo Chief?
He craved to take your place as German leader,
made secret search to prove your Jewish blood,
laid bare a Christian mix-up, low, yea mud;
kept secret files and watched each move you made.
Had he not sponsored Auschwitz's poison feeder?

He, normal, watched with chicken-farmer skill
two friends of yours, Röhm, Hess, had Röhm soon shot.
You, restless, flighty, but psychologist,
used manly steps in uniform, showed fist.
Had women share your mansion: "World, watch me,
the Fuehrer, chosen by our Aryan God!

"Come Youth, no matter what your first seven years,
my swastika loves you and makes you free.
Come sadists, masochists, you'll satisfy
your lust. Let those in camps be used then die.
I, Aryan god, be buried in Valhalla,
my Catholic faith, abhorred, shall pay the fee!"

Poor Hitler, so alone when mother died.
Had Jews to help you paint. Free shelters gave
a bed. Your karmic undercurrent though
fed childhood hate, lured spirits from below -
your ego swelled and spewed demonic power:
Some fifty million died - you, too, no grave.

I feel as though the spirits don't let go.
They led your ego from your Munich show
to Berlin's pistol. You put me in awe.
You prove to me there is a cosmic law.
I feel six million Jews now point at you,
as though you were a part of Satan's crew.

                                     William Hermanns         [P521]