blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein
The swashbuckling syphilitic looks a little like
a walrus with that mustache of his.
The jolly drill sergeant is, of course, clean-shaven,
close-cropped, and he barks his orders like a ramrod ringmaster.
“Step right up and burnish that brass!”
The swashbuckling syphilitic and the jolly drill sergeant
don’t see eye-to-eye. “God is dead,” cries the former.
“I must have missed the obituary,” chuckles the latter.
“Gaze into the abyss,” intones the syphilitic,
“but don’t lean too far over,” warns the drill sergeant.
“Whoever does not have a good father . . . ”
“What’s done is done.”
The jolly drill sergeant
Puts his hand on the syphilitic’s shoulder.
“Enough of this nonsense.
The Shnapps’s on me.”
“Alcohol, like Christianity, intoxicates!”
“Okay, okay, forget it,” says the jolly drill sergeant.
And so they go their separate ways,
neither one the wiser.