Nasties.

In old folks homes
do Nazi's roam
stealing park benches
in Post Office queues,
complaining of Jews
in queues into Kew
for lots they once drew
no choice
did they voice
where birds no longer sing
fog like gunsmoke lingers
where fingers interlaced,
lovers and mothers embraced,
where wire
and fire
combined to make pyres
shoes counted and paired
hair shorn
uniforms worn
and races torn.