Hitler Poem by Alexander Romanov

Beautiful Moscow all around.
If it grinds me down, I'm off to Peter.
Today the grass hits sweet and loud,
Tomorrow I might roll with Hitler.

Rain comes—I pull on the mac.
Snow comes—I drag a sweater tighter.
You're not waiting, still knocked out,
I'll hit at dawn like Hitler.

From my pocket—Bittner's bitter balm,
Not Riga's mix, the real dark kicker.
Your eyes are saying, low and calm,
"Talk to me, Hitler."

I crack my mouth—not a speaker,
Not a preacher, never a pleaser.
My chest is loaded with rough notes—
I'll sing to you like Hitler.

What once cost money now comes free.
The blog burns down to a stream of Twitter.
No more light, only night—
No God left. Only Hitler.