The Fugitive Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

They caught him at the border then, in eighty-five,
for people smuggling, treason to the GDR,
The STASi took him in, a bit dishevelled but alive,
at last there was a deal made at the bar.

He grabbed it, spilled the java and they got him dressed,
two bandaids on his temple hid them well,
a Wartburg drove him West, he felt elated and high blessed,
the end of what must surely be a German type of Hell.

Reneg he did, he ran and had his papers done,
fast-tracked to fly down under in great haste,
a subtle change to fool the boys, he hid in the hot sun
and filed against revenge imposed, his life would be a waste.

They'd taken all his past away, the papers he had earned,
no traitor may walk free, my boy, your future plans are burned,
The powers in the west took charge, they studied evidence,
while living in deep luxury, the name's Mercedes Benz.

The past sent more, it seemed he had performed illegal acts,
abortions, torture, theft, a whore had covered some small tracks.
A court of law will take it all and take its own sweet time,
it matters little should he fall, he must have done his crime.

The lies perturbed the fugitive, depression sought his soul,
his joints grew heavy, old and stiff, he was no longer whole.
And then he snapped, amassed a crew of judges and professors
and while the shysters lied and napped, he found some new confessors.

It took until two thousand six, the hearing in Berlin,
they had no evidence, no tricks and he was free of sin.
All honours, titles and degrees were given back of course,
he rode out of the Fatherland on an inspired horse.