Orange cone hats and black tricorns,
Gold-trimmed black pickelhauben
And their drab tan descendants
Bob with every goose-step down
The gravel path of history, stones Crunching, crunching as men sing out.

The column stretches through
Centuries like a vast blue snake,
Its yellow belly fading to sullen grey
As one's eye follows to the head.

"Hatched from a cannonball,"
Says Napoleon, removing his hat.
"An army with a state," says Voltaire,
Lifting a glass of cognac to his lips.
"Dearest sons," says Bismarck,
Smiling proudly behind his mustache.

"Nazis!" cries Hitler, "Nazis before Nazis! Look, Herr Himmler,
Look, Herr Göring! See how they
March! See how they sing! Eastward!"

The column marches on, the men
Continue to sing as if in a holy choir, Continue to smile among themselves,
Hearing not the Chancellor's words.
They march as one, a white banner
With a black eagle over their heads.

"Nazis!" shrieks Merkel, "Schweihund Nazis! See how they march!
See how they sing! See how they dress!
Erase them! Destroy them! Now!"

The column marches on, the men
Continue to sing as if in a holy choir,
Continue to smile to themselves,
Hearing not the Chancellor's words.
They march as one, a white banner
With a black eagle over their heads.

Down the gravel path they march,
Their hats and helms bobbing along
As they sing the glory of Prussia,
Fredericus Rex, and their beloved
Wives, daughters, fathers, and sons.
They march on, and they sing.


© Miyamoto Yoshi