HITLER’S TABLELAMP
DR. R. V. R. CHAN
DRASEKHARA RAO
The Fuhrer sat on his straight-backed wooden seat
Reading ~he maps and hearing the tumult of
Wagner’s sounds Fingers tapping the table to keep the rhythm’s beat Obsessed
with thoughts that nothing shall be beyond his bounds.
The tablelamp glowed with pinkish golden light
As the bulb’s rays pierced through the lamp shade.
The war lord seemed pretty soothed by the sight
As for a while from the obsession his attentions
fade.
But, look! his steely eyes saw a thick drop of sweat
Ooze from the lamp’s fair and transparent
tasselled fabric
And drip down the shade’s frame as melted sticky
salt;
A thought flashed which even to him seemed
barbaric.
Wasn’t the lamp a present that the loyal Himmler
did bring
A tribute to his pure and ascetic ‘Mein Fuhrer’
From Belsen’s countryside, with a bunch of tulips,
last spring
And deliver it, hands folded in prayer, imitating
Durer.
The Hun recalled his minions boast of Germanic
grit
In managing well the many crematoria for the
living
Every part is used – teeth, hair and skin – every
bit.
That prideful remembrance sent a message that was
chilling.
The blob on the golden shade appeared to grow
Like the abominable and creeping slime in a SF
movie.
He touched the drop, right hand hesitant and
moving slow
Unable to resist feeling the whole thing repulsive
and eerie.
He felt scalded, nay branded, by a revenge
infernal
That sent through his frame shivers of terror
Untypical of one who wallowed in thoughts sepulchral.
He knew he was facing an apparition of holy
horror.
He heard the avenging cries of a soft-skinned
child
Torn away from her mother’s bosom to get her skin
ftayed
The screams filled the leader’s ears as a chorus
wailing wild
And made him rant and rave, his stern decorum
flawed.
The sounds of hell and the feel of that slime
Sent him rushing to the refuge of the water closet
Reaching for the soap there to wash his alleged
crime
Little realising the case against him was tight
and shut.
As the lathered hands got washed with water hot
He remembered Himmler’s gift included cakes of
soap:
Oh, by the Devil, wasn’t that made of human fat
And he trying to wash guilt with Satanic hope?
Thus did a little child accomplish her final
retribution
Her once fair tender skin itself becoming the
brandishing iron
To carve on an evil one the stigmata of the
Devil’s creation
And despatch Hitler to damnation in the bosom of Eva Braun.