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1941

My cousin, Hartmut, God curse his soul,
Got me in this stinking hole,
Guarding prisoners in the Camp
Who smell of shit and mud and damp;
These stubborn, sullen, dirty slobs
Who drag and do a half-assed job;
Their vicious fights for dirty rags,
Their scheming over half-smoked fags;
Their rotting smiles as they beg to please
When you knock them on their bony knees;
I hate this duty, this boring tour;
Oh to guard the Italian shore:
A sunny beach in the bright fresh air,
Not this latrine, this grim despair;
Here comes Lansky, the Russian Jew,
All bones and eyes, he smells my stew

Submitted: Friday, October 04, 2013
Edited: Saturday, October 05, 2013


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