Nazi lover with cheekbones high and smooth
will you still love me in World War Three?
Will fascist boots break my neck for a color?
Someone wrote human kind are dead, moving dead.
We have lost our daddies, friends try to bring them back.
Daddy went home. He and momma are smoking weed
in the neverlands of purgatory, heaven, hell, maybe paradise.
We don’t know now do we dear? What’s next? What’s not?
Could be cold, could be hot. Could be Johnny or Bonnie
flying in from Montgomery on a six-string or a smooth slide.
We know Nazi girl that no one knows the sound of black boots like us.