(Göring, head of the Luftwaffe, once bragged that if one German city were bombed, they could call him “Meier.” At his Karinhall estate, he questions himself and his disgrace.)
And why, Herr Reichsmarschall, is Italy
Just like schnitzel? If they’re beaten
Either one will just get bigger.
Neither cuts too firm a figure.
Still, all this humble pie you’ve eaten
Lately, fills you out quite prettily.
Why then, Herr Göring, how can we
Tell you and Italy apart?
Italy always wins through losing;
I, just the opposite, by using
High skills and cunning learned the art
Of flat pratfalls through victory.
You've led our Flying Circus; how
Could our war ace turn to a clown?
Both pad out over-extended fronts;
Both keep alive doing slick stunts
And, even so, both get shot down.
But only one’s called “Meier” now.
Pray, could an old, soft football be
Much like a man in deep disgrace?
They don’t kick back; don’t even dare
Look up—the British own the air!
Then, stick a needle in someplace;
Pump yourself full of vacancy.
Tell us, dear Minister for Air,
Are warriors, then, like a bad smell?
Neither stays inside its borders;
Either’s bound to follow ordures;
They both expand and play the swell
Though something’s getting spoiled somewhere.
Then answer one more question, which is
Are politicians like whipped cream?
They both inflate themselves with gas;
Also they both puff up your ass
Till you’re exposed like some bad dream
Where you’ve grown too big for your britches.
Herr President, can’t we tell apart
An artful statesman and an ass?
Fat chance! One spouts out high ideals;
One makes low rumblings after meals.
But that’s the threat of leaking gas
Which all men fear! No; that’s a fart.
Last, could you give one simple rule
To tell a medal from a turd?
No. They both come from those above you
Conveying their opinion of you.
Right! Here’s your new medal, conferred
For vast achievements: April Fool!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem