80 years ago today the Moustache died, died
not on the Eastern Front with bellicosity,
but in his dark bunker mit Eva Braun his bride,
who saw him lose his crazytalk ferocity.
He had paced for hours in high anxiety,
goosesteps gone, his dog looking for a place to hide,
Der Furor meinkampfing one last time, his diety
gone all Gotterdammerung, his Will piggystied.
He loved Mendelsohn's Also Sprach Zarathustra
und Heinrich Heine's arch Lutheran lyricism,
und he had his cat shot, und Jewish mysticism
played on his Plymouth Duster stereo booster.
Never again will we see the likes of Adolph,
unless you count that motherf*cker Bernie Madoff.
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