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,