You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Non servi, non servi
non più, nera scarpa,
come un piede vi ho vissuto
per trent’anni, gramo e bianco,
trattenendo fiato e starnuto.
Papà, ammazzarti avrei dovuto,
Tirasti le cuoia prima che ci riuscissi.
Tu, fardello imbottito di Dio, marmo cocciuto,
Orrenda statua dall’alluce tristo
grosso come una foca di Frisco.
Le nevi del Tirolo, la chiara birra di Vienna
Non sono tanto pure o sincere
con la mia ava zingara ed un destino pazzo
di tarocchi ho un mazzo
qualcosa di giudeo potrei avere
Ho sempre avuto terrore di te,
della tua Luftwaffe, del tuo gregregré.
e il tuo baffo ben curato
e l’occhio ariano rifulgente blu.
Uomo-panzer, uomo-panzer, o tu
non un Dio ma una svastica nera
così che nessun cielo vi trapela.
ogni donna adora un fascista,
uno scarpone sulla faccia, un brutale
un cuore inumano, uno a te eguale.
Stai alla lavagna, papà,
nella foto che ho di te,
biforcuto nel mento, piuttosto che nel pié
ma non meno diabolico per questo, oh già
e non meno uomo nero che azzanna il mio piccolo cuore
facendolo in due.
Avevo dieci anni allorché sotterrarono te.
e a venti cercai di morire
per tornare, tornare, tornare da te.
Pensavo che le ossa servissero, perfino le tue.
Nel tuo cuore grasso e nero c’è un paletto
ai paesani nemmeno piacevi.
Ora ti pestano, sopra di te fanno un balletto.
Chi eri hanno sempre capito.
Papà, papà, bastardo, ho finito.