The Pink Triangle.

I remember dancing with Chris
in Danzig, by the sea.
We'd sing to each other
play with our hands
with the chirping birds
and the rolling of the sea.
Thinking back to the time,
when I was free
in the old Weimar days
of freedom and democracy
it all seemed so perfect
but now, we've taken a step back in time
to the days of barbarians.
Rounded up and flogged
with a pink triangle on my clothing
I shiver, as the noose sways in front of me.
They call me a fagget
that I have disgraced my Aryan blood.
I remember when they forced Chris to his knees
they put a bullet through his skull.
His blood sprayed over me,
slavic, slave blood.
He had it easy
for I have been sentenced to hang
by the noose.
Here I stand,
still who I am.
Waiting for death,
a sentence.
Handed down from Hell.
With a crack,
the floor falls through
as do my feet, and my legs
I hang, twitching for release.
I am shot through the chest
as I die, the blood splatters
pure, Aryan blood.
Splattered across the pavement.
Left here, by the noose
I sway in the breeze.
With the purity
dripping from my carcass.