Six million next of kin,
ghost pale, bone thin.
Six million yellow stars,
holiday in cattle cars,
tattoo blue, no more name,
a different number, but the same pain.
Fifty years we've tripped along,
Auschwitz sings their fading song.
Ashes, chimney, black and white.
Screams witness their lonely night.
Swastikas grace American walls,
a familiar hold in which man crawls.
No perestroika for the chosen few,
it's a scapegoat for the Soviet Jews.
Shave and shorn for the coats you wear,
naked soul and body bare.
Green mist, dance and climb,
Cyclon B is the end of the line.
The furnace hums a lullaby,
six million, God knows why.
Fifty years we tripped along.
Some now say they are not gone.
We made them up six million lies,
along with mothers' lonely cries.
The swastika will drag you down
into depths until you drown.
On the cross hangs another Jew,
only His mercy can lead us through.
ghost pale, bone thin.
Six million yellow stars,
holiday in cattle cars,
tattoo blue, no more name,
a different number, but the same pain.
Fifty years we've tripped along,
Auschwitz sings their fading song.
Ashes, chimney, black and white.
Screams witness their lonely night.
Swastikas grace American walls,
a familiar hold in which man crawls.
No perestroika for the chosen few,
it's a scapegoat for the Soviet Jews.
Shave and shorn for the coats you wear,
naked soul and body bare.
Green mist, dance and climb,
Cyclon B is the end of the line.
The furnace hums a lullaby,
six million, God knows why.
Fifty years we tripped along.
Some now say they are not gone.
We made them up six million lies,
along with mothers' lonely cries.
The swastika will drag you down
into depths until you drown.
On the cross hangs another Jew,
only His mercy can lead us through.