Sefton Delmer beat Goering at his own game, watch a broadcast telephone to a cast call of regime strain
His show’s conceit that he was Der Chief, since ‘33 a pureblood nazi now placing his beliefs under scrutiny
Under RAF-racked roofs that need mending the people bent in to the wireless, ears lent him
He spoke of unity and not of purity
He mentioned his unit’s name and numbers supplied courtesy of the war office, he said that more’n half of these bastards in charge were dirty
The other half clueless proceed in the surety that the Reich’s looming pleurisy is some ailment easily cured like bacon
He never talked down Germany, he praised its people and its army, their strength of arms, mediaeval air of their farms
They had tarms which never twisted, each of them was brave, gifted and owed many comely maiden kisses
If we die out there, the Nazis won’t miss us
They will scarcely notice, noses dipped in powder drinking hot piss from a mistress
He reserved his hatred from the party proper, who he called pants ploppers agitproppers
Der Chief had love for the flaxen haired croppy boy outstanding in his field
Der Chief loathed the Nazi leaders, sexed up Weimar coke fiends
Most had brokered secret peace, he said, and would adopt Bolshevik causes
The rest would slip beneath the sea, where the isle of Thule they thought was.
Alchemisland 
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