A waiter who was only following orders –

Sitting inside sixty-second intervals at a Wolf’s Lair Dinner Party, partying hard with Party people, another senseless slaughter by angry word surgeons.
It’s all better brains bending, then love-hearts dissected, and beautiful veins antagonised and violated.
Cloakroom off-limits until the funny little Jew, Charlie Chaplin, falls over wearing a quizzical ‘straight down the eye of the camera’ look; again, Woody Allen knows his stuff.
Two-ten stares from an invention of Morning, eyelids at half-mast, and Mercedes-Benz bends headlight light across a black forest.
Names, ranks, and serial numbers in their Hugo Boss finery mount a new line of metal steeds, and silence falls again outside a Heath-Robinson concrete catastrophe.
The tearful goodbyes are always the most difficult emotion.

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