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Description
My love does not live by the seashore
nor a small house with a white picket fence.
He lives on a redwood branch with jet swatstika decor
and dead Jew children at his door.

My love is a man of war
a man of hate
a man of passion (not for fashion, mind you)
a man of corrupt government supremacy
a man of Neo-Nazi respect
a man of charisma, any one can detect
and a man with a great sense of emotion.

I’m glad he left that whore!
The one that I exceptionally despise and abhor!
His attractive and benevolent toothbrush moustache
is too good for her, if I’m not too brash.

This may sound like complete nonsense,
but this meeting did actually commence.
I met him in a time paradox machine
when I was about the age of sixteen.

Just kidding.
I was about forty.
So was he.
But when he met me, he seemed like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

I felt a little too gay, but when I spoke
I spoke politely
I spoke pure English (it was subtitled, too)
I spoke calmly
I spoke apt
and I spoke as if he were retarded.

He immediately calmed down.
Uncertain, his expression sunk into a frown.
He put a hand on my shoulder
and, finally, I recognized “Der Furher”

“I vwant you to know zat I cun read subtitles
und damsels
zike you.”
His hand withdrew.

Read me, he says, through his thick German accent?
Can he read this glaring perplexity in my eye?
And, hopefully, I hope he can’t read this uncharacteristic sexual tension I feel.
No! It’s nothing! It must be nothing, I desperately beseech.

But the way he yelled at his troops to leave him alone with me,
He had me entranced.
Like I wanted to dance
And to prance
And look at him in more than one single glance
And advance into some ROMANCE!

He and I will conquer Earth,
and then we will conquer the moon together.
Then we’re going live on it together, he and I.
And adopt an abundant amount of little Mexican and Amish people
to take care of our snug little cottage.

And surely, it ensued. We became a little intimate after a few weeks in Germany.
And soon something left me. Oh, yes, it was my painful misery!
My painful misery of my lost Lenore. My wifey.
We did fight quite a bit,
but it was over those little things.
Like who is going to shoot the ingrate and who’s going to clean up the mess.
But it always ended in a small, tender kiss.
Yes, it was love.

Which is better? I wonder.
Edgar Allan Hitler?
No! Edgar Hitler. Still, that’s a little tacky.
Adolf Poe?
Oh this is so not going to work!
But who’s going to wear the dress?
That’s my problem.
I’m too pale and he’s too much
of a sexy German hunky-hunk.

Note: intentional forced rhyme.

Description
My love does not live by the seashore
nor a small house with a white picket fence.
He lives on a redwood branch with jet swatstika decor
and dead Jew children at his door.

My love is a man of war
a man of hate
a man of passion (not for fashion, mind you)
a man of corrupt government supremacy
a man of Neo-Nazi respect
a man of charisma, any one can detect
and a man with a great sense of emotion.

I’m glad he left that whore!
The one that I exceptionally despise and abhor!
His attractive and benevolent toothbrush moustache
is too good for her, if I’m not too brash.

This may sound like complete nonsense,
but this meeting did actually commence.
I met him in a time paradox machine
when I was about the age of sixteen.

Just kidding.
I was about forty.
So was he.
But when he met me, he seemed like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

I felt a little too gay, but when I spoke
I spoke politely
I spoke pure English (it was subtitled, too)
I spoke calmly
I spoke apt
and I spoke as if he were retarded.

He immediately calmed down.
Uncertain, his expression sunk into a frown.
He put a hand on my shoulder
and, finally, I recognized “Der Furher”

“I vwant you to know zat I cun read subtitles
und damsels
zike you.”
His hand withdrew.

Read me, he says, through his thick German accent?
Can he read this glaring perplexity in my eye?
And, hopefully, I hope he can’t read this uncharacteristic sexual tension I feel.
No! It’s nothing! It must be nothing, I desperately beseech.

But the way he yelled at his troops to leave him alone with me,
He had me entranced.
Like I wanted to dance
And to prance
And look at him in more than one single glance
And advance into some ROMANCE!

He and I will conquer Earth,
and then we will conquer the moon together.
Then we’re going live on it together, he and I.
And adopt an abundant amount of little Mexican and Amish people
to take care of our snug little cottage.

And surely, it ensued. We became a little intimate after a few weeks in Germany.
And soon something left me. Oh, yes, it was my painful misery!
My painful misery of my lost Lenore. My wifey.
We did fight quite a bit,
but it was over those little things.
Like who is going to shoot the ingrate and who’s going to clean up the mess.
But it always ended in a small, tender kiss.
Yes, it was love.

Which is better? I wonder.
Edgar Allan Hitler?
No! Edgar Hitler. Still, that’s a little tacky.
Adolf Poe?
Oh this is so not going to work!
But who’s going to wear the dress?
That’s my problem.
I’m too pale and he’s too much
of a sexy German hunky-hunk.

Note: intentional forced rhyme.