Bright yellow stars Lay next to a pit of limbs, As cross bearing reapers Write epitaphs in chalk, Someone’s name To be washed away by rain. The perfect mortals align empty cases By a mountain of trinkets and heels. Ivory mines are checked for gold, Shavers drone removing Aryan hair from Jewish heads, to be used as textiles for more yellow stars, taken from the dead for the living. Babies clamped to their mothers breasts, Paled by the gas that never rests As she rests forever fetal. Children enter the shower room Their trusting hands hold tightly On to limp fingers of the knowing, Till the clasp unfolds And they leave the chimney as ghosts. Stains will be cleansed by filth And Gods are blonde and blue eyed Invented by perfect mortals, To kill children for the Fatherland, So economy can be born again And Nebecanezzar can be King Of children and pain.