John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
“She cannot live forever! ”
We told each other more than once.
Still, she had all the Deutschmarks
and to her I was a dunce..
My wife and I were servant/slaves
to her every wish and whim.
It was just after the Armistice
that she ”allowed” us move in.
Germany was a hungry place
As Weimar came into being
What happened after Wilhelm fled,
few could claim to have foreseen.
No, she never spoiled us,
her grandson and his mate.
I cut wood, my wife drew water
For that shriveled old ingrate.
Other than a pittance
and an attic bed of straw
she gave neither thanks nor praise
to her only heirs at law.
Thank Gott, the morning finally dawned
we didn’t hear her ring her bell.
In sleep she had departed
to Heaven or, likely, Hell.
We hugged each other gleefully.
Our servitude was done.
We were rich with Deutschmarks!
The year was Nineteen twenty one.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Inheritance by John F. McCullagh )
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