Archive
06/02/11
Goody Two-Boots
Nothing much monumental ever happened to Herr Goody Two-Boots, Nothing much to write home-away-from-home about, anyway, Other than his being anointed with the three little kosher piggies' Whee-whee-whee, fee-fi-fo-fum, Ho-humdrum, horse-latitudes, Hitlerian doldrums, The hi-de-hi-de-Himmler hi, hi-de-hi-de-Heydrich ho, Down-and-dirty, hurdy-gurdy Grosser Judenhof ghetto blues.
And even then, subservient Untermensch Goody Two-Boots, Being a Nuremburg Law-abiding, ever-so-humble-pie, patriotic Juden, Refused to stray too far away from his local Gestapo agency, For fear that the brown- and black-shirted Todestruppen Might confuse him for some kind of enemy-of-the-state Dreck-insect, Accuse him of plotting against the Vaterland, And ship him off, like a common Schwein, to a Polish abattoir,
To be properly processed, cum green-blue tattoos on his trotters, Barbecued on a precision-fabricated Topf und Söhne pyre-pit-spit-grate Exacting the maximum calculated ratio of human body fat to weight, Before being served up, on a Rhine-castle platter, to the inner circle of Nazis Gathered in the never-to-be, colossal Volkshalle , near the Reichstag, Hölle-bent on determining, for the once-and-for-all final final final time, A final solution to the final question the kike infestation had been asking.
And so it was, through no superhuman delusion of his own, That Herr Goody Two-Boots, the purest, least verminous of Aryan Jews, Whose Germanic heritage dated all the way back to Alaric the Visigoth, Survived with his toes, gonads, Hakenkreuz-embroidered tallith, Endured, existed, abided, despite psychic trials and familial losses, And died of natural causes, seventy-five years later, at ninety-nine — A good Pole working his hog farm, five miles outside Oswiecim.
06/02/11
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