I hate the fatal end - itís so clear,
Life never makes me tired, faint or blue,
And I do hate each season of the year
When I donít sing my merry songs to you.
I hate the guy whoís cynical and cold;
Iím rather cautious seeing too much glee;
I hate to see the lad so rude and bold,
Who reads my letters peeping over me.
Iím full of bile when things are half-completed,
To cut the talk abruptly - itís a shame!
To shoot in someoneís back is mean and bitter,
To shoot the man point blank is just the same!
Conceit and vanity, I think, are both rotten -
Iíd rather have a car with no brakes...
Itís a disgrace that honor is forgotten
But in the race of life the squealers win the stakes
For gossip, tittle-tattle I donít care,
I hate both wavering and grandeur-gaining fuss,
I hate it when Iím stroked against the hair,
I hate to see how iron crushes glass.
The broken wings in me wake no compassion,
Though I am not too callous or too hard;
And though I hate depression and aggression,
The martyrdom of Christ still breaks my heart.
I hate myself when I get feet so cold
That I can watch how innocents are hit...
I hate it when they break into my soul,
And hate it when into my soul they spit.
I hate it when true art is turned to vending,
When tawdry jestersí fortunes dissipate...
And even if great changes are impending,
Iíll never fall in love with what I hate!