Now, Brecht, did you let your cigar go out?
In the course of the earthquakes we provoked
In those states that were built on sand.
Socialism takes its hat, never mind, her's Johnnie
Walker.
I can't grab it by its principles
Which are falling out anyway. The warm streets
Of October are the chilly routes
Of market economies, Horatio. I wedge my gun in
my cheek
And there it is, your nothing-much-worth-
mentioning.

Translation: Michael Hoffmann