I am an exotic man, to put it mildly,
My tastes and my demands are rather strange,
I can, for instance, nibble glasses madly,
And read the works of Schiller for a change.
I have two "Selves" in me, two poles of planet,
Two absolutely different men, two foes,
When one is eager to attend a ballet
The other straight off to the races goes.
I donít take liberties, when I turn out
To be myself, going the whole hog,
My other "Self" will frequently break out
Appearing as a rascal and a rogue.
And I oppress the scoundrelís intrusion,
My life! Iíve never known such distress...
Perchance (I am so scared of confusion),
Iím not that other "Self" whom I oppress.
When in my soul I open up the facets
In spots where sincerity should be
I pay the waitresses, on trust, in assets,
And women give me their love for free.
But suddenly all my ideals go to grass, as
Iím impatient, angry, rude and such a bore!
I sit like mad, devouring the glasses,
And throwing Schiller down on the floor.
The hearing is on. I stand and speak austerely,
Appealing to the jury, showing tact:
"It wasnít me whoíd smashed the window, really,
It was my other wicked "Self", in fact.
Do not be strict to me. Youíd better
Give me a chance, but not a prison term.
Iíll visit court-rooms just as a spectator
and drop in on the judges as a chum.
I wonít smash windows any more, distinctly,
Nor fight in public - write it in your scroll!
Iíll bring the halves of my split, sickly,
Disintegrated soul into a single whole.
Iíll root it out, bury it and quench it;
I want to clear and reveal my soul.
My other "Self" is alien to my nature,
No, it is not my other "Self", at all.