[Verse 1] He knocks like a landlord. The clouds don’t care. Clipboard. Name tag. “Please wait there.” Tried to straighten the line at the gate, told Saint Peter the system ran late. Peter yawned, flipped a page in the mist— “Sir, you surely won't be missed.” [Chorus] Hitler in Heaven, what a terrible fit. Halo hangs crooked, refuses to sit. Choir goes quiet on the marching bit. Hitler in Heaven— . . and Heaven’s not into it. [Verse 2] He asked for a balcony, got a folding chair. Tried to reorganize the weather up there. Wrote a whole speech on a napkin with flair. Nobody stood. Nobody cared. An angel poured coffee, said, “We don’t do thrones. We do dishes and leaving well enough alone.” [Chorus] Hitler in Heaven, what a terrible fit. Halo hangs crooked, refuses to sit. Choir goes quiet on the marching bit. Hitler in Heaven— . . and Heaven’s not into it. [Bridge] They sat him beside names he’d rather not see. No fire. No pit. Just one long table, Adolf with two dozen Israelis. Uncomfortable? A bit. pass the bread, don’t start a war, that's not what this lesson is for. [Final Chorus] Hitler in Heaven, what a terrible scene. Halo hangs crooked, refuses to gleam. If grace has a punchline, this might be it: Hitler in Heaven— and nobody happy about it. [Outro, spoken over piano] He asked if he could leave, said he didn't feel well. "No, dear Adolf, this is your private hell."
