Plod on, poor frozen Fritzes,
Plod on, poor frozen frau:
You who invented blitzes
Are in the business now.

Your Ribbentrops, your Papens
Gave you to understand,
War is a thing that happens
On other people's land.

But Ribbentrop's in hiding,
And Papen can't be found,
And Russian tanks are riding
In Goering's hunting-ground.

Plod on, corrupted cattle;
The Junker plods with you;
And Bismarck, Boss of Battle,
Is farther down the queue.

Sing 'Heil!' to mighty Russia,
'Farewell' to farm and shack:
This is the end of Prussia,
And you're not coming back.
January 28, 1945