(translated by Hans Martin Enzensberger)
I spent my time in constant pain.
That may not be true nevertheless probably!
O pain, o sore me!
I suffer in such a way from the existence
I take refuge in the beer.
But now the beer made the blister full for me.
What uses me my talent? Doris does not regard me.
What uses a my doing and writing?
Luggage I it to the seat face,
then wants to drive it out me.
And I must on the pot,
floated of the river, which nobody can hold.
However which complain I you? You are only the wall.
Which I want to discover you,
in verses, failed:
The pain, which frightens me,
the blister, which bursts to me,
And that I my goal with whimpering course-ran?