The small hands of a blind
German girl rang a small bell,
Which she held tightly with her
Fingers grasping the piece of brass
That her grandfather sold to her
On his deathbed.
Was he an ex-Nazi?
That's up for debate,
But she had no idea what facism
Or what other gossip
Would whip up behind her back,
When she skipped to school,
With her small poodle,
Following her down the cobble stone
Road to the last feast of the season.
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