Like broken-winged Spitfires
             The Gypsy moths gyrate down,
             grovelling on my compound floor.

             I screw in my monocle
             and twist the switch on my electric blanket,
             Gestapo-green and oven-hot:

             Give me a concertina of barbed wire
             and a wrought-iron Swastika on an arm
             band stitched on my brown night shirt
             and I could be a Good German
             like Dr. Werner von Braun—
             or some other loyal American . . .

             Oh! here comes my private Bitch of Buchenwald
             with scalding mug of mourning coffee,
             liberally laced with Napalm
             dripping on her tattooed jerry-cloth robe.
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