Hello to you from the gray gloomy city, Where crowds unconsciously worship despair, Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity With naive belief in the world's being fair. They have no trust in a man's inner power, And fortitude sounds like something unknown. They have no poets, just ones of an hour, Who drown at once in the thoughts of their own. With greed they consume plain illusions for dinner, And dress them with lies when they serve the new dishes To those so-called "pathological sinners" Who find someone else's delusions delicious. They have Friday liter-mates rather than friends To mark that the week of no favor is ending, But even with glasses of spirits in hands They look worse than misery. Are they pretending?
