Balls Of Fire Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It was his first, and smuggled in at that,
the Commies hadn't yet approved of things
that made the forces of free market grow.
Blue Jeans, they said were just a symbol,
they stood for what they knew as exploitation,
like nylon stockings, even pantyhose,
they were not needed in the State of workers,
and peasants who adored their stoic loyalty.

But, as so often happens, things did change,
hard currency could plug so many holes,
and tastes of those old clowns were all the same.
Thus, Trabbis mixed with Stuttgart limousines,
and colour came to visit all the grey facades,
where he was now accelerating, metal heels
were echoing back from the Brandenburger Gate.

He'd followed the instruction of the merchant then,
to soak inside a tub of frigid water, wearing them,
all Levis Jeans demanded this, it made them fit.

He recognised the STASI by their armpit bulges,
they questioned him at length about his views
of their beloved Workers' Paradise and more.
He could not speak, no words were formed
or could be heard, he stood in silence, motionless,
and visualised how millions of those little sperms
were dying as he stood, near Brandenburger Gate
with shrunken Levis Jeans, and heat inside his crotch.

A killer, so the STASI said, came always from the West.
Imperialists, warmongers who roamed in the night.
And, as the voices built toward a new crescendo
he lost his cool and screamed right into faces who
were solemn symbols of authority here in this land,
the meaning was not out of place or time, the words,
in perfect English now: 'Great balls of fire.'