Follow the leader down to Hell,
Follow him fast who leads so well;
Follow and follow and do not stray;
You’ve got no right to your own way.

The leader knows what’s good for you;
He plots and plans what you should do.
Your happiness is all his care,
So follow him to anywhere.

No matter blood, destruction, death,
No matter gasps of no more breath,
No matter aims that seem not well,
Follow the leader down to Hell.

The leader knows you have no might
To guide your life by your own light;
He knows that your whole future’s grey,
Unless you give—give up, obey.

So do your duty, be complete;
Forget base self, its wandering feet.
Just blindly go, hope all is well,
And follow the leader down to Hell.

What’s this? You balk? You hold you back?
What is this talk, this part-tea track?
You dream to follow your own mind?
You dare to think your are not blind?

What kind of human being—-you,
Who trust himself to see and do,
To live without a leader’s plan?
Are you a special hero-man?

For heroes there is no more room;
Follow the leader down to doom.
For love of life there is no love;
It’s duty you must think you of.

In emptiness you’ll find your fill;
In lack of will more holy will;
In lifeless life a thrilling breath—
The last before you sink in death.

Follow the leader; he knows how,
Before his fears to fooly bow.
Himself he sees a stupid ant,
Dumb follower of master Kant.

And master Kant, what did he do?
He mastered Nothing through and through.
He never wandered far from home,
And mastered “Nowhere do I roam.”

And yet, ’tis said he mastered pen
And scribbled pages ten times ten.
Low “duty” was his master word;
He wished to herd men in a herd—
A fenced-in herd that would not roam,
But safely, safely, stay at home.

He was afraid of Something’s change;
He feared the new, avoided Strange;
With Nothing he was full of ease,
His duty to it was a breeze.

And so he scribbled, “Reason, Pure”,
Which had no reason, ’twas so pure.
And men his Nothing ate them well,
To follow the master down to Hell.

On mighty throne of nothing, rare,
The king of Nothing sits him there.
He nothing does and nothing sees,
While Duty to him bends his knees.

Beside him selfless Igo lies
(His “I” is going, gone his eyes);
He waits to hear those words of praise—
“You’re good for nothing all your days.”

But king of Nothing’s lost his wit;
He can’t, for Kant, get hold of it.
“Oh, that was nothing,” then pops out—
The end of speech, without a doubt.
And Igo smiles, sly, content,
And dies of nothing pertinent.