THE ENGINEER FORMERLY KNOWN AS STRANGELOVE.(Poem)

 
   Mein Fuhrer, they called me Doctor Strangelove 
   in the 1960s. This now they'd dare not do. 
   Right and Left then thought in Perverts, like you 
   but now it's Doctor Preference, Doctor Paralimbic-- 
 
   I've also quit the White race. The accident 
   of pallor became not worth the flak. 
   I won't join another. Race is decadent. 
   I lay this wreath on your unknown grave, mein Fuhrer. 
 
   In my third sunrise century, Germany 
   has re-conquered Europe on her knees. 
   Fighter planes still pull gravities, not levities 
   but the flag of the West is now a gourmet tablecloth. 
 
   The Cold War is a Dammerung long since of dead Gotter 
   but I am still in cutting-edge high tech. 
   In a think-tank up to my neck 
   I rotate, projecting scenarios. 
 
   In one, nearly every birth's a clone 
   of Elvis, of Guevara, of Marilyn 
   and many later figures. Few new people get born 
   then nostalgia for nostalgia collapses. 
 
   Of your own copies, one is a Trappist, to atone; 
   the other went through school and never heard of you. 
   He helps creased, off-register people who fade as they relax. 
   They are tourists travelling on the cheap, by 3D fax. 
 
   Marxists will resurge by squaring sex with equality. 
   Every wallflower will be subject to compulsory 
   fulfilment by the beautiful: deprivation makes Tory. 
   Evolution ...