Herr Hitler's Impecable Fashion Sense
The Nazies have pieces of flair
They make the Jews wear;
Little golden stars,
Else you go behind bars.
To the gas, to the chamber
Count life's remainder
On one hand;
Naked, we stand
Waiting, in the dark
silent, listening, afraid; hark!
Now my heart, its beats are missing.
Caught in the aero-toxin's vice,
Veins, blood, skin turn to ice.
Arbeit macht frei,
We see as we shuffle in under sullen sky.
Put to work, dragging the dead from their places;
Trying hard, not to look at their faces.
Tongues rolled out, eyes look up,
Staring at us, reminding us of our cup.
Tomorrow I shall takes this one's place,
A corpse being hauled by another of my race.
An endless cycle, an untiring machine;
Herr Hitler's mad plan, his country to clean.