We be seventy Lyric Poets,
All in the Fatherland,
Our verse is delightful, although its
Not easy to understand.
We're the flower and crown of the nation,
The crown and flower of the earth,
But we find our remuneration
Inadequate to our worth.
We sing of "Sehnsucht" and "Trauer,"
"Die Liebe," "Das Herz" and "Die Welt,"
But leider, we haven't the power,
To sing from the public "Das Geld."
The plumbers have their Union,
Fast joined the joiners keep,
And sweep hold dark communion,
With sooty brother sweep.
The motormen and switchmen,
The very firemen band,
Alone against the richmen,
The Poets helpless stand.
A fig for the Philistine slander,
Let's cut from all precedent loose,
What's sauce for the bus-driving gander,
Is sauce for the quill-driving goose.
We'll found (because empty our purse is)
A Lyrische Dichterverein;
And we won't write any more verses,
Under 50 pfennig a line.