The Price Of It Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

There was a mean, pathetic man,
much substance he had not.
He only counted one true fan
but that prevented not

his mad attacks on those who can
create true poetry.
I think he might just be deranged,
how else could one explain

the frequent trouble he arranged
as if he were insane?
As time went by the people saw
what really was behind him,

that was the trigger for the raw
sheer hatred that did blind him.
He stood in a great market place
where thousands were assembled

and showed his venom-spitting face
so that the masses trembled.
And then he urged his enemy
to find an airtight room

and douse himself with Zyklon B
and there await his doom.
Our times aren't what they used to be,
some poeple know no rules.

These low lives do not seem to see
that even blatant fools
have to account for what they say,
and this fool made an error,

it isn't ever quite okay
to dabble in sheer terror.
The crack of dawn had just begun,
a car pulled up. The Mail? ? ?
Oh no, it was a man with gun,
the fool went off to jail.