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Six Chimneys


– The Ballad of Tour Guide Titty Fart –

by Phil Sparkin

Come, let us sport with Titty Fart,
queen of the surviving art.
Auschwitz horrors are her pride.
Auschwitz grim and gruesome guide.

Titty, what lies rotting there?
Toenails, dentures, various hair
dark and curly, blonde more rare,
clippings from shaggy dogs,
less than human golliwogs,
not least survivors share?

Titty, those massed underpants –
did they reach the sky perchance?
While on tiptop trilled the lark,
‘Buy your pants at Marks and Spark.’
Trill blithe spirit, throbbing breast!
How about a tiptop nest?

Titty, did hebraic fat
bubble in huge Auschwitz vat?
Is it true when chimneys smoked
stoking up the Holohoax,
Hungarian smoke was blue,
Polish smoke a greener hue?

Did lush looming lady Jews
create the boom in cast-off shoes?
Did rag-bone vagrants in cahoots
provide the show with rotting boots?

Titty, when you joined the rush
to add another tatty brush
to the growing grisly pile,
how tender your enigmatic smile?
Did obscene fake photograph
produce a thin hebraic laugh?
Did non-Dresden bellies buckle
with a cackle or a chuckle?

Titty, was it here Anne Frank
indulged in some unseemly prank?
Did she sport another diary
frankly titled Auschwitz Liary?
Did she wield that biro pen?
Discuss anatomy of men?
And when she fully came on stream,
did she stamp and slap and scream?
But only now and then!
Or was it all papa’s sweet dream?

Remember Titty, how you ran
beside incited Princess Anne?
Plugged six million fairy tales
grotesque as Jonah swallowing whales.
Brought compassion to the boil
in a simple brain-washed royal.
As you briefed the moist-eyed Anne,
tell us how you kept dead-pan.

Titty, is it still hush-hush
once you very nearly blushed?
Charles’ popping eyes pop-popped,
princely lower jaw just dropped...
When you claimed God spoke from Heaven –
“Not six million, Tit, BUT SEVEN.”

Titty, where’s the new mass grave –
skulls and skeletons Jews crave?
And bigger buckets for tears?
And more significant souvenirs?
Lucky You, when shone beneath
golden gleam – Rebecca’s teeth!
Tit, who was any wiser
when you prised out her incisor?
And instead of coca-cola
you clutched her upper molar,
while you sold authentic ash
for cash. Kept all of it.

Titty, now the nuns have left,
where’s the fun to feel bereft?
So let us to the swimming pool,
to the deep end where it’s cool,
not where gasees cooled their knees
before the concert – if you please!
There, extended you and I,
Titty, shall on sun beds lie.
Whiff of zyklon! But no lice
or buzzing flies or pale rabbis!

Titty, as the sunset pales,
tell me tall gas chamber tales.
It must have been like sardine tins!
But caviare! Not fish with fins!

Is it true by Holy See
the gas alarm installed was free?
Did the Nazis bet a nickel on
just how quick would be that zyklon?
Did the gasees slam their fivers
not on ham, but ham survivors?
Was gas chamber large enough?
Was there time to properly stuff?
Doubts those vile revisionists feel.
Stuffing makes it hard to seal!

Titty, now in moonlight glow,
you all silvered, me in tow...
Guide me where Pope John once stood,
feeling, one feels, holy good,
careless of unblessed home goals,
blessing those four million souls.

Lead me to that sacred spot
where John blessed the blessed lot...
Official figure now one million!
Lead me to that tragic spot...
Not one survivor!
Three million souls that went to pot!

Titty, Titty, what came after?
Surely, Titty, not God’s laughter?

Spare a shekel tender heart
for Tit and Beauty – all that art
to guide you to the nearest bones,
provide you with gas chamber groans,
even to give you gas – TIT’S FART.

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