I donít like an end by fatal reason,
My being cannot tire of my way.
Not to my liking any time and season
When ill or drunken Iím not OK.
I donít like of cynicism coldness,
Enthusiasm trustless, so I find -
When strangers read my letters like uncalled guests
By spying over shoulders them behind.
I never like when a job is in a slack done,
Or when the conversation is cut short.
Nor do I like a shooting at the back gun,
Iím against a point-blank gun shot.
I hate the gossip in the shape íf a tongue play,
A worm of doubt, pricks that praises deal,
Or when all time to rub one up the wrong way,
Or when to stroke glass against steel.
I donít like a confidence contented, -
Itís better when my brakes refuse to work.
Annoys me honour when it is pretended,
Or when an honour is a backstage talk.
The sight of wings broken in a sickness
Can rouse neither pity nor remorse,
Not to my liking - violence, and weakness,
And only Christ is painful on his cross.
I never like myself when I ím frightened,
When innocent is beaten in the face.
Intruding on my soul nor do I like and,
Especially with spittles of disgrace.
I always hate maneges and arenas:
A million being changed for a cent.
To whatsoever future is to bring us
Itís not to be my liking to the end.