"Good German;" is that who you think that I am,
An overweight burgher, bent into the wind?  On
A sidestreet in Munich, I waddle toward home,
And a beer and some schnitzel.  I choose not
To know what's become of the Jews and the other
Unwanteds.  I'm okay.  There's no sign they're
Coming for me.  I suppose that the things that
They're doing are wrong, the evacuations,
The muzzles, the money spent purchasing weapons
To conquer the world, but I'm just one man who's
Not eager to draw the attentions of people who've
Made clear what's loyal, and what things are not.
I will cower here beside my schnitzel and lager,
And trudge to my job at a quarter to eight, 
And, when fascism's enemies bring down all this,
I will cheer in my own way, though no one will 
Know, as good Germans will say they are sad.