About Göring’s Reichstag fire

Or our fellow party brethren

Who were shot in plain reaction—

Good Jew haters, every one,

Hayn and Strasser, Heines, Röhm

Et cetera, et ceteree

On a pretty Alpensee.

And just as the old guys sang,

So we boys can chirp and twang:

To us the Führer is a god!

Though every third shell is a dud

Our belief is strong as ever

In his wise battle maneuvers.

And if in the Donets Basin

Our advance stalled out, lost traction,

Forced us for the nonce to beat

A glorious tactical retreat—

What’s it matter?! The Iranian

Who became your war companion

Also pulls back just in time

From that fertile basin thine.

And so no one gets to grouse,

Or make a mess in his own house,

It’s filled to bursting anyway—

Crap everywhere, the enemy

Makes for the home front, despite our objection,

No exception.

If Wedding burned and is no more

Just lie down on the Wannsee shore:

There amidst the gentle breezes

You can find a spot that pleases

Racial pigment, in the sun,

Will tan an ideological brown

Moan through love’s activities,

Stretch various extremities

Which otherwise would only languish

Idly covered up by fabric

And in this total war would be

Of no utility

For victory.

If the fatherland should yield,

Should find that its fate has been sealed,

You can do your part and more

By waging your own private war:

Black-haired boys with curly locks

With cameras hanging from their necks—

Show them your gymnastics act

They’ll photograph you on the mat:

One hundred percent woman

For the film industry’s stud farm.

If we’ve got our skinny flanks—

For which we’ve got Adolf to thank—

And during this our healthy fast

They roast up crispy, barely last,

It’s not just a frivolous game

But rather propaganda’s aim.

The whole world must be made to see

That we have no weak tendency!

Babelsberg gives them their start:

Our cinematic works of art

Shall be presented far and wide

And show what Germans can provide:

Willingness to sacrifice

At any price.

When the winds of fate are shifting

Film receives its lofty mission

To instill in every breast

The will to stand up to the test:

Film can drive off with its power

Sorrows from our heavy hours

And move the hand over the heart

Amidst the cinematic dark

The eyes meanwhile look up and see

A fellow Aryan on the screen

Who battles death and devil

While subsisting on nettles—

So that in the end the beauty—

Seeing him carry out his duty

And rise to heroic fame—

Lies with him in the final frame:

He satisfies his mighty will

While making sure she gets her fill.

Don’t give in to hesitance—

You mustn’t miss out on this chance

To prove in such a prominent place

That you’re a credit to your race

And that even in the buff

You’re up to snuff.

All the Ku’damm conversation

Touches on your fine proportions