My Anne Poem by Zachary Buck Hultman

My Anne, my wife will be angry, she don't like it when I don't call her Annie
We suffer, you're Hitler my money, German's incoming, the Pharisees surround me
Your yellow star, my absence of proof of who you are
You have no bikes allowed, so don't go far, my tires have been flat or a decade, or stolen by a drunk on the way home from a bar
You can't be a rider or a driver, I can only ride but mostly when my masters turn into a slave driver
You shop only between three and five o'clock, all the public accommodations to me have their doors locked
You're segregated with what you can do with your hair, I'm bald so it's the shallow who really only care
You can't be out at night, I could, but I better get home if I want to keep seeing the light
You can't attend the theater, well I could, but only if I change my religion or am escorted by my master
You can't use the athletic fields, or even run in public, you've got it worse there, I have a few available for use, and on the sidewalk they let me jog till i get sick
Not even your garden after eight? They hate to see your mind escape
You can't be in the home of a Christian, they've exterminated most of those, I'm one of last ones standin'
You're segregated into Jewish schools, the public and the christian colleges told me I can't sign up for classes if I actually practice Christian rules
We can't do this 'n we can't do that, the trauma keeps our voices written, hoping one day they'll listen
You were dead before they came a savin you from extermination, where will they come from to free me from the god of prostitution?