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...