Contemporaries, heapwise

It’s no small thing, to paint them without hate,

and quite impossible with no deep scorn.

Heads they have like decals on a plate

and, where the heart should be, a telephone.

They know and that full well, that circles round are

and artificial limbs are made of wood.

Fluently they speak, and on this ground are

Proud each day—and Sundays—as they should.

In their hands are all things valuable.

In their soul electric light burns ever.

They measure even what’s incalculable.

What can’t be totted up, is noughtsoever!

They have great calluses upon their brain,

just as though to sit there they were fain.

They fairly blush, when they play with children.

Love they make according to a program.

They never sing (even when it’s August)

a pretty Christmas carol in the street.

They’re never happy and they always lust.

And think, when think they must, just through their beak.

They laud our age without becoming tired,

as though royalties they somehow claimed.

Their intellect is mostly double-wide.

They can only seem to be ashamed.

They have wit they find somehow impairs.

They know much, they do not comprehend.

You should see them, when they’re splitting hairs!

It’s enough, walls one up to send.

One ought to shoot them full of little holes!

Their last cry would be a dernier cri.

Accomplices too many have their roles,

however, for one’s shots to reach their goals.

They’d hit not be.

Erich Kästner