I donít like a fatal ending for a reason.
Because Iím never getting sick of life.
And I do not like any season
When joyful songs of mine are not alive.
I donít like bold cynicism for fetters,
I donít trust some easy passion,
Or when a stranger peeps into my letters;
I find itís quite an ugly fashion.
I donít like when there are halfway talks
Or interruptions in the certain places.
I donít like when someone shoots at folks;
It doesnít matter, at the backs or faces.
I hate the rumors in the form of versions,
The rotten doubts and the honorís pin.
The wrong way manners make me feel aversions,
Like screech of iron cutting glass therein.
I donít like at all cocksure game;
Iím better off with no breaks on track!
Such word as "honor" is forgotten, what a shame!
They honor slander now, all behind oneís back.
The broken wings mean just another loss;
Thereís no pity in my heart, itís clear.
I do like neither weakness no brute force,
And yet, for Christ, the crucified, I have a tear.
I donít like myself absorbed by fear;
It hurts when innocent are beaten madly.
I donít like when someone tries to smear
My soul; all the more, my spirit so badly.
I donít like arenas and manages;
A million is swindled there at once.
Whatever changes lie ahead by any measure,
Iíll never ever like it, not a chance.