I. Vienna Days
I miss the old Vienna days.
Tinning postcards outside cafes
As a struggling artist day to day
But they’d listen to me when I’d say
“tobacco is bad” and “don’t eat meat”
They respected me, they did
I miss the old Vienna days
As I sit in this gold-leaf chair
tapping marble in leather boots
with my face in my hand, I think
how close to me the cyanide is–
I miss the old Vienna days
It’s like they say, you don’t know
what you got until it’s gone
Sure, I was strapped for schillings
Sure, the academy rejected me
twice–even–they’d rejected me
I “lacked competence with people”
they claimed, and “try architecture”–
Ha!–now–now they call me Führer
Lacks competence with people–Ha!
I must admit it does still sting–even
after all these years, it still stings
My cityscapes were phenomenal!
Even they were forced to admit
my cityscapes were phenomenal
“Such detail!” Dr Nagler exclaimed
in my support, as he was the only
member of the board to recommend
me, but, that–that was years ago
II. Mein Kampf
The day I gave up on me–my dream
–the day that I traded my brush for a
pen and thought, “Hey! I can do this!”
Well, and boy–did that–I did–and how:
Twelve million copies. Yeah. Vundabar.
And not to toot my own horn–too loudly
but, vundabar is an understatement.
Twelve million copies, motherfucker!
Had I that position of income in Vienna
Well, I would probably not be in Vienna
But that was the thing though, in Vienna
I was a real artist, bleeding heart I swear
It wasn’t about the money or lackthereof
It was all about the art, man, the art
But those Jews, though, corrupted me
of course, you know how that goes
Like any infestation problem, you know
III. Renaissance Ahoy
As I sit in this gold-leaf embroidered chair
the walls around me shake, and the plaster
cracks in the ceiling above me, I can hear
the burning diesel of the approaching tanks
As I hurry to scribble down these final words,
the conclusion should come as no surprise:
my final act as Führer is to fabricate my death.
I’ll be airlifted in approximately five minutes
I will leave Germany for a new land: Argentina
According to some of my bffs, it’s a great place
It’s low-key, a Western neophyte and zero Jews
And the weather–is just vundabar they tell me.
As for politics, while I respect the continuing
ambitions of my highly ranked bffs, I respect
more their respect for me and my decision
to trade in my boots for the old brush again
That’s right–Hitler the painter is back, baby
And this time, ain’t nobody gonna stop him!
The body doubles (courtesy of two leftovers,)
for Eva and myself are both perfect to the T–
for reals, even my missing testical–vundabar.
Hanz has already burned the bodies–with
notes included, so, I think they’ll really buy it.
I need a new look, though, to help blend in
in Argentina, or, at least, not stick out there
I don’t know if you heard but I’m a big deal
Time Magazine wants me Man of The Year
This toothbrush mustache of mine has to go
I think I’ll grow a beard, like my idol van Gogh
I have to regain the old artist’s state of mind
Time–who even needs that Yankee garbage
Ha! Well, adios, my Germany, it’s been real.
I hear the chopper’s blades–my time is now.
The Führer formerly known as Adolf Hitler,