What gain does man derive from all his toil?
He steps from stalk to stalk across the mire,
Derided by the rainbow as he goes.
He cannot get enough of empty shows,
A borrowed jacket still is his attire
When, with closed eyes, he’s destined for the soil.
He who as mighty despot just held sway,
As pious vicar or as sage well-read,
Who just paraded as spes patriae
With colour in his cheeks and springy tread,
It’s hard to comprehend, but anyway,
Is dead and dead and dead and dead and dead.