In This Town There is Only VanityIn this town there is nothing but vanity,
silly shamefacedness, great snobbery;
the only thing that counts in town is envy,
that’s why they’re all a bunch of chicory...
Stunted grass, bitter, scattered grass:
that’s how you judge it when you see it;
and here, all but a few in this morass,
are boot-lickers, shifty, but dull-witted!
They’re dwarves and wish the same for all their
neighbors;
they move close to the ground, upon all fours;
and due to nasty, to conceited wickedness
the only thing that grows here is grass, grass, grass...
Trees?...If ever one should bloom, they would throw
big stones at it so it will never grow...
No trees at all! not like in other places
where a tall tree is cause for happy faces.
You try and try in vain... you’re left heartsick...
You always sense there is a smell of garlic...
Here luck doesn’t shine on those who accomplish things,
but passes on the grass to leave its droppings.