When in my lowest stock of wine and praise,
I just content myself with this cheap beer
And wish in some hotel I with my raise,
In spirits high, enjoying a good cheer;
But most I get from work that I contend
Is reprimand from bossy chief and staff,
And scorn from lady love whom I pretend
To have, when all I get from her is chaff;
And thinking of this love, this love of fools,
That angels find not worthy of a cent,
Or else, meagerly priced as would cheap wools,
I wonder how my glossy life have went;
…. To see her face, and hear her terse tirade,
…. I might with bandits give my life to trade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem