The Exterminator

by Rudolf Abbe

 

From the memories of my childhood I could deduce
The mimes of fascism, the secret of the Gospels;
That its brightest rooms were the private domains of police
Extrapolating crippling provisos,
Sadisms of immemorial schemata.

So may I be so bold? Philosophy
Is simply a poorly executed portrait.
Let no mask speak to you, for you too are
Disfigured beyond recourse and do not know it.
Shush when the gods pick up their knives and forks.
The bleating New Men know
Whom they do and do not intend to murder.
Hitler, old drummer boy, be still a moment.
Calmly, unerringly, the ship goes on its way.