In a hamlet in the Tyrol an old lady is not virile, She is languishing and heavy is her heart.
For she thinks about her baby who, had he been
christened Abie,
Maybe might have never played the monster’s part. If her son had only married, if her lust had not
miscarried,
Who can say for certain what might not have been. In her somber weeds of sorrow she is hopeful some
tomorrow
Will undo the passion that produced a sin.
Schickelgruber! Schickelgruber!
You were born a child of shame.
You have always been a bastard,
Even though you changed your name.
Came the headlines, then the breadlines, As your will to power grew. Schickelgruber, Schickelgruber!
What a pretty how-dy-do. Though a mother, I can smother Mother love at thought of you.

In his youth his one obsession was to practice a profession,
And he dabbled with the palette and the paint.
But the art he couldn’t master, so he went from paint
to plaster,
And today he calls himself a plaster saint.
Is he good or evil fairy? All his pals have now
grown wary,
That is, those of them who didn’t rate the purge. And the scent will ever linger, how he gave his
friends the finger
Just to gratify and culminate an urge.
Schickelgruber! Schickelgruber! Once the dew was on the rose.
Where you’ll end up in the wind-up, Schickelgruber, Heaven knows.
Ever ruthless, ever truthless,
When the judgment day is due. Repercussions from the Russians, Schickelgruber, say you’re through. Every village that you pillage
In revenge will turn on you.