That's where I'm from. That yearly celebrates every nine.
That's what I wish to leave, cross fences never mine
but in the wrong shoes run to where I'm part of it
and am responsible for the residuous shit.
That changeably remains the same,
beneath the trash of tends is like--
now blue jeans, now green loden are the name of the game--
faded, discarded photos from our late Third Reich.
November's dead, leave them alone!
For us who live there's quite enough now to be done.
But these are not the others, those have now awoken,
thought up the same as doers by the self-same token.
Not written off nor tax free is the profit made
from debts that now by my sort must be paid.
