Kult - Śmierć poety

Injections didn't help
Neither have reviews nor monuments
Nor sour milk:
A charlatan – a scoundrel – came
He examined him, he swayed:
– Dementia praecox

What joy it was at home
Finally, an end to the shame
The trouble ended!
The keeper laughed heartily:
– will cut his thread soon
Miss Atropos

The wife was clapping her hands:
– Oh, at last the end has come
Of drunken orgies
I've suffered a lot
Finally, your body
Will be taken to the morgue

Everyone stood in a circle
With very cheerful faces
The press, cousins
And this respectable gathering
Declared in unison:
– That swine deserved it!

Why did he seduce girls
Visit homes at night
Disturbing children's sleep
And why Pod Zegarem
Did he pour old wine into his stomach
Every day of the week?

Warsaw knows him well:
He borrowed – he didn't return
The wretched seed
And “poetic vistas”
Were those scandals
In the Mała Ziemiańska

Serves you right, old scoundrel
For sins, you hang over the abyss
Of inferno
First stars and roses
Then a stool in the censorship office –
A venal writer!

Thus, this charming gathering
Advised in unison
In the death chamber
And since he had a paler face
They declared: – Surely the end has come
For the scoundrel

Zephyrs scented the air
Triple lyres sounded
The mob scattered
An alcohol heart
Was carried by angels
On golden ivy

Zephyrs scented the air
Triple lyres sounded
The mob scattered
An alcohol heart
Was carried by angels
On golden ivy