Roland Freisler’s Gesang
Woof,
the shepherd
barked.
Mein Schatzi,
Barry, so true,
Roland’s retort.
He did it,
didn’t he?
Growly woof-bark
in the
affirmative.
Wolfish gargle lodged
in his throat
Volcanic
testimony,
a Vesuvius
eruption of assent
reverberates
from the bench.
Spectator muddle
of mudlicious dithering echoes.
The prisoner
held his pants
up
arms out like a
flightless penguin.
Beltless,
Shoulders
slumped,
Head bent in
defeat
eyes glued to
his eyebrows .
Growling hound,
and Freisler
sang their growling ditty--
Wagnerian tango
to the condemned.
Gleeful woof
barks follow
Barry’s tongue slathering
from the side
Sniffing disdainfully
at the shuffling prisoner
Swallowed into
the conga line crush
of waddling
prisoners.
Barry was right,
of course.
Always was.
They had no say.
Freisler proffered
his schatzi a biscuit,
Patted his
head--
con amore.
Woof, Barry
lovingly answered.
Both content to
judge,
To devolve into
their safer world.
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