I donít like the fatal passing either,
And life is not the thing Iím tired with.
I donít like the every time of year,
When I couldít joyously my songs to sing.
I donít like the cold rotten cynicism,
And donít believe in ecstasy, and more:
I donít like when somebody is reading
My letters, looking over my shoulder now.
I donít like when work is done in half-way,
And donít like when talk is interrupted.
I donít like the shooting in the back then,
But in the need Iíll fire straight at somebody.
I donít like the gossip as a version,
The worms of doubt, honour thorn as pass,
Or when they flatter contrary to coat,
Or when they draw with iron on the glass.
I donít like the confidence repleted,
Itís better when the brakes then break down.
How annoying, that "honour" word depleted,
While slander is distributed around.
When I do see the fractured wings, no pity
I have in me, and here the reason is:
I donít like the violence or weakness,
But I regret for crusified Christ.
I donít like myself, if Iím frightened,
And donít stand when innocent are beaten.
I donít like when someone thrusts in soul mine,
And ever more, when someoneís spitting in.
I donít like the circus rings and stages,
Where millions exchanged to only rouble.
Let it would be in future many changes,
I never ever like this, to be true.