They're tapping 'em three times on the table.
The épées.
But noted fencers they are not,
just a triumvirate calling for the fraternity's
attention.

A Geist from Munich is floating above the garden
were they sit n' feast
smoke unfurles from his mouth and his
ciggarette
is the chatterbox on the balcony.
The Geist despises the triumivirate,
knowing their true intentions,
to cultivate a sentiment
for the Third Reich.

Poet Laureate of the triumvirate speaks:
Oh, brethren you I hold
like basket of reverends!
Gather ye seidels, I pour on thee
an aryan brew. . .
It takes only one teak to tear our purity apart
therefore we stay in tune
with our bombs over Spain,
flambé Guernica brulée!
The épées on our left side
proves the hour of the hounds
is nigh!
And the hounds barked and hung the night.

And as he takes off, the Geist from Munich
flies by Pater's window.
And Pater sits alone in front of the TV, gazing
into it's luminosity, as he always does after
8 o'clock. Looking
like an old Johnny Cash with a bad weather hanging in his eyes.