Inside the Pappkarton he hides,
the masses have assembled at the Square,
soft white and manicured his fingers pound the sides
as vulgar voices taunt him, it's a dare.
Come out, come out they shout, inside the Affe
is tempted by the Devil - does he deal?
At last he stands and grins, Ich bin der Pfaffe!
The mob cheers loudly, welcome, holy Spiel!
A bolt of lightning strikes and sets alight
his Pappenhaus, up goes a puff of smoke,
he scrambles, letting go of his black Pfaffenkleid
which burns, he marks a cross into the bark of the old oak
to please his God, enlist his endless grace
yet schwarze Finger paint a symbol of his past
onto his flushed and panic-stricken face
when God himself presents a mirror and at last
he sees the swastika and then the klein-SS
to save the day and thus himself, he shouts Gott Bless.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/der-pfaffe/
