I hate the fatal end - it’s so clear,
Life never makes me tired, faint or blue,
And I do hate each season of the year
When I don’t sing my merry songs to you.

I hate the guy who’s cynical and cold;
I’m rather cautious seeing too much glee;
I hate to see the lad so rude and bold,
Who reads my letters peeping over me.

I’m full of bile when things are half-completed,
To cut the talk abruptly - it’s a shame!
To shoot in someone’s back is mean and bitter,
To shoot the man point blank is just the same!

Conceit and vanity, I think, are both rotten -
I’d rather have a car with no brakes...
It’s a disgrace that honor is forgotten
But in the race of life the squealers win the stakes

For gossip, tittle-tattle I don’t care,
I hate both wavering and grandeur-gaining fuss,
I hate it when I’m 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 jesters’ fortunes dissipate...
And even if great changes are impending,
I’ll never fall in love with what I hate!