Lied des Unmuts
Grumpy Song


You will not find a poet
Who doesn't think he's best,
No fiddler who'd not rather
Play the tunes he wrote, if pressed.

That I can understand;
When it 's others we exalt
We put ourselves at fault;
What is life lived at second-hand?

This is a situation
I found on the fringes of the Court
Where they weren't able to distinguish
Cat's piss from vintage port.

Yesterday's men despised
The vigour of new brooms,
And they in turn dismissed
How they had left the rooms.

When people's are divided
By mutual contempt,
Then none of them will recognise
Shared aims they represent.

And by far the harshest critics
Of this self-centredness
Are those who find it hardest
To credit others their success.