The Fuhrer’s trousers, singed and seared.
Forty six perforated eardrums, the fearful
shouting of deaf men clustered around dead
men dashed to bits: Schmunt, Brandt, Korten,
even Berger, just the unfortunate stenographer,
but all you gave the Fuhrer were two hundred
wooden splinters and a fresh pair of pants.
Blame the table leg that turned the blast aside.
Blame the unfortunate nudge of the unfortunate
colonel’s foot that caused your briefcase bomb
to slide just far enough way to leave the Fuhrer
living. Two hundred failed splinters and all you got
for them were headlights before midnight and a
bullet.

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An entry in the 100 Word Challenge. This prompt was "failed." The poem itself is inspired by true events.