1941 Poem by David McLansky

My cousin, Hartmut, God curse his soul,
Got me in this stinking hole,
Guarding prisoners in the Camp
Who smell of shit and mud and damp;
These stubborn, sullen, dirty slobs
Who drag and do a half-assed job;
Their vicious fights for dirty rags,
Their scheming over half-smoked fags;
Their rotting smiles as they beg to please
When you knock them on their bony knees;
I hate this duty, this boring tour;
Oh to guard the Italian shore:
A sunny beach in the bright fresh air,
Not this latrine, this grim despair;
Here comes Lansky, the Russian Jew,
All bones and eyes, he smells my stew