Back to the kicthen, mein Gretchen!
Back to the scullery, frau!
You have dreamed your brief hour of a matriarch's pow'r:
But it's dishes and drudgery now.
Your head bent in humble submission,
Your back for the masculine flail,
Speak softly, and know your position,
Meek slave of the dominant male.

Back to the kicthen, mein fraulein!
Back to the post and the pans.
To that menial place marked for you in the race.
This earth and its glories are Man's
Seek you a strong master, my daughter,
And serve him; yet be not appalled:
But give him stout sons for the slaughter
When more cannon fodder is called.

Hausfrau! Hark you back to the kitchen!
Your visions of glory are vain.
The old Teuton gods count you chattels and clods,
And the Blond Beast has risen again.
Your masters, with arrogance drunken,
Have brought your ambitions to wreck;
Your glories are spurlos versunken.
Ach! Woman! Our heel on her neck.