I donít prefer fatality of finish,
I never tired for all my being long.
And I will also battle to diminish
The time of year without the jolly songs.
I donít prefer the cynicism, but prudence,
I donít believe in rapture, and whatís more:
When someone read my letters with impudence,
Looked over shoulder, asking nothing for.
I donít prefer the dialogue with liar
And interrupted dialogue is strange.
I donít prefer the sight unseen fire
And fire at the point of blank range.
I donít prefer the gossip kinda version,
The worms of doubt, the needle of the fame.
I feel the smooth against the wool as tension,
And iron scratching glass I hate the same.
I donít prefer when confidence is rotten,
Letís better brakes will fail on the speed.
Thatís tragedy, that honour is forgotten,
Now backbite treated as the giant feat.
I donít feel sorry, when I see the people,
Who have the broken and the wounded wings,
Detest the violence and the hopeless cripple
I just feel sorry for the Jesusís stings.
I donít prefer myself in dreading role,
Or when the blameless are under the beat,
I donít prefer when someone breaks my soul,
Especially when someone tries to spit.
I donít prefer the manages and stages,
Where million dollars changes cent by cent.
And one predicted future giant changes,
But I will never like it till the end.