zi germans, zi germans.

you get this part right and pack all
your belongings into a battered brown suitcase
worming through the bathroom window
just before the clipboard agents show up to collect you.
your best alphabet hovers over the hedge
like the smell of decomposition
leaking through a kitchen window.
the idealistic children of the first revolution
take stock of their forefathers' follies
and swear they'll set things right.
but somewhere in an alleyway the dream changes
and you end up in a WWF match with the necronomican
but that's just the prelude to the good part
where the world sparks like a fuse,
a gunshot powder flash desecrating darkness
and no amount of silence can stop you dancing.