| The Burgher banged his fist on the table, red face glowing with pride
|
| «We'll rise,» he cried, «As soon as we’re able, avenging the ones who died!»
|
| No more the hunted, no more the mouse, no more the quivering prey!
|
| The masters are driving the slaves from the house; |
| the masters are coming to
|
| stay
|
| The Burgher dipped his bread in the gravy, splattering his silken tie
|
| Nochmal the Wehrmacht! |
| Nochmal the Navy! |
| Nochmal the thundering skies!
|
| Once more the stadium rocking with cheers, once more the torchlight parade!
|
| Away with the cowering dog-bitten years, away with the humble charade!
|
| A thousand years, the tears of the weak for our wine!
|
| A thousand years, we’ll pluck them like fruit from the vine!
|
| Ah, they fed us and clothed us and handed us weapons as well
|
| But give us a leader, we’ll follow him down into Hell!
|
| The Burgher spilled his wine on the table, staggering out of his chair
|
| «We'll rise,» he cried, «As soon as we’re able!» |
| stroking the young man’s hair
|
| The English are finished; |
| the French are fools; |
| the Russians have China to fear;
|
| The Yanks holler «Commie!» |
| and follow their rules and the time for the rising
|
| is here
|
| The young man’s eyes were fiery and glowing, the Burgher’s hand in his own
|
| «We'll rise!» |
| he cried, «The movement is growing! |
| We’ll march on a road of
|
| bones!»
|
| They’re coming from Egypt; |
| they’re coming from Hesse; |
| they’re coming from
|
| Argentine;
|
| We’ll march over Russia; |
| we’ll march to the West; |
| we’ll show them what conquest
|
| can mean!
|
| A thousand years, the tears of the weak for our wine!
|
| A thousand years, we’ll pluck them like fruit from the vine!
|
| Ah, they fed us and clothed us and handed us weapons as well
|
| But give us a leader, by God, and we’ll see them in Hell! |