Выбрать главу

his line of work is classified as a reserved profession.

For the next I used my contacts, for his pride was simply daft.

In return for a down payment he too has dodged the draft.

Now if they call up my youngest, I pull some other string.

Of course you all were young once — and youth must have its fling!

FRESSACK

My oldest boy has wangled the whole business on his own,

the next one was exempted when he wrote a victory poem.

So when his country called him, he knew how to stay alive:

his talents earned admission to the cushy War Archive.

But back there in Vienna you know what’s all the rage:

he chats up a director and is writing for the stage,

though of course he’s got to churn out some trash about the war.

And my youngest, oh, dear boy! His health is far too poor.

NASCHKATZ

By enlisting in the army, you bagged a better deal.

You chose the softer option, while we need nerves of steel.

For seven days a week our anxious lives are filled with toil,

stocking up with leather goods and soap and cooking oil.

We guarantee delivery, but sometimes by bad luck

a deal to sell a trainload completely comes unstuck.

We’ll get by, but in peacetime? Oh God, I hope you’ll grant

that someone will create a brand-new weapons-making plant.

FRESSACK

From that may God preserve us, for no one talks of peace,

the aches and pains of wartime we don’t want to increase.

We produce and deliver, making our contribution,

but peace might bring disaster, exacting retribution.

A plant to make new weapons? But I’m happy with Skoda!

Their devastating impact’s been praised by Roda Roda.

You chaps when you’re buried won’t be needing any kit,

but my better half — the fur she wants must be the latest fit.

NASCHKATZ

It’s for us you dead soldiers should go into mourning.

Times are getting tough and those rumours are a warning.

Should we have to acknowledge that we toiled in vain,

the hazards of peacetime will bring us further pain.

So what’s left? For my son I’ll buy an estate,

and one of my friends has been made a magnate.

Thus each to his own: to the heroes a grave,

but we’re the hyenas — and know how to save!

CHORUS OF THE HYENAS

That’s life! That’s life!

Don’t talk too loud!

The warlike strife

has done us proud.

We’ve raised the price,

knowing God’s ways.

Three trucks of rice

and three of maize

wait on the track.

We’ll seize our chance

and the whole pack

can join the dance!

(Tango of the Hyenas around the corpses. The wall of flames in the background has disappeared, and a sulphurous yellow glow covers the horizon. The gigantic silhouette of the Lord of the Hyenas appears. The Hyenas stop dancing and cluster around.)

(A dark, greying, woolly, closely trimmed beard, growing out of a similar head of hair, encloses his face like the hide of an animal; dynamically curved nose; large, bulging eyes with whites very prominent and tiny piercing pupils. The hunched physique is reminiscent of a tapir. Smart suit with embroidered waistcoat. The right foot seems to be striding boldly forwards. The left hand, clenched into a fist, rests on the trouser pocket, the right hand, on which a diamond ring sparkles, gestures towards the Hyenas.)

THE LORD OF THE HYENAS

Fall in and stand up straight!

We’ve lots to celebrate,

So — On parade!

You’ve beaten every foe

and now it’s time to show

you’ve made the grade.

You needn’t waste your breath

begging for loot from Death.

No cause to be afraid!

God knows we’ve got the right

to put such fears to flight,

we’ve got it made!

The Son of Man who suffered,

and on the cross was offered,

deserves to be despised.

In place of life eternal

I’ve kindled fires infernal.

I am the Anti-Christ.

To heaven we give thanks.

The crooks who run the banks

have made His realm redundant.

His blood He may have shed

but as He bows his head,

our power remains abundant.

His love could not prevent

our rise. His power is spent.

We’ve nothing more to fear.

We are the true believers,

redeemers and deceivers.

The Anti-Christ is near.

While you sharpen your claws

to further our great cause,

myself I lead the fight.

Against their feeble sword

I wield the printed word.

Our might is right.

While others do their duty

we carry off our booty,

far stronger than before.

Archaic powers advance,

complete the circle dance.

The Cross has lost the war!

So those who crucified Him

now openly deride Him.

Judas has his reward!

And from this vale of tears

completely disappears

the servant of the Lord.

A world that needs redeeming

succumbed to evil scheming.

The Saviour’s cause is lost.

We continue on our course

without the least remorse,

scorning the cost.

Now we inaugurate

a realm of endless hate

from which all love is banned.

Global destruction means

the laughter of the Fiend

echoes throughout the land.

Mankind must walk on crutches

when all that Progress touches

is up for tender.

The Devil may be lame,

but his triumph, just the same,

makes God surrender.

He hobbles everyday

to the Stock Exchange to play

with market trends.

For him there’s nothing sacred,

for the world has been stripped naked,

his power never ends.

His realm cannot stagnate

when a newspaper magnate

marks the end of time.

For souls are in my grasp

and just watch how I kick ass

of anything sublime!

Their minds I cauterize,

so I deserve first prize,

as hero of the hour.

My sovereign powers arise

from those who advertise

and boost my power.

Hyenas are my mates,

and everyone who hates

takes my advice.

So where bodies are buried,

for the future we are readied,

and we control the price.

To beat the competition

you build up your position.

Don’t cut things fine!

History is soaked in blood,

but the market we can flood.

Watch the bottom line!

The old guard must take the blame,

for Moriz is my name,

and all boxes I have ticked.

Teachings of the Christian shepherd

with errors full are peppered!

My name is Benedikt!

The Christian world may hope

for salvation from a Pope,

to whom I’m not related.

I have my own believers,

the swindlers and deceivers,

whose gains have escalated.

Before my profane throne

the insolent lie prone,

adoring filthy lucre.

I trust that Mammon’s lure

for ever will endure.

To us belongs the future!

Merchants of death grow rich,

for they control the pitch

with a clenched fist.

Although the world is tragic,

the press has the black magic

none can resist.

We’ve formed a vital link,

forged out of printer’s ink,