"Rabōssai! Ich spür' jetzt sein Grablen, sein Zapplen,
Es dacht sich, er dawent a Bissel!
Un' halt' ich's noch länger jetzt aus, mus ich mapplen—
Gewald! Gi't mir Brechwein a Schüssel!
"A prophet, and one of the smaller kind at that!—Just twelve of them to the dozen. Too tough is his body, too tough are his bones, he pierces my heart with his dancing!
"And stones, and bones, and all other kinds of things my stomach has digested; but I am powerless with prophets,—they are a plague not mentioned in the Scriptures.
"There does not exist a tender prophet,—you can never eat them or gnaw them. It would be meritorious not to leave a trace of pious men who rummage in your stomachs!
"There does not exist a pious man who is tender,—we know that class of heroes! It would be meritorious not to leave a trace of them—with all due respect permit me to say that!
"My lords! I feel he is now rummaging in my stomach, oh, help me! It has ever been the business of pious people to rummage in other people's entrails,—that's the kind of a prophet he is, only, alas, he is crooked!
"My lords! meseems, he is now mumbling something, and he is writhing and bending up all of a sudden,—you preach in vain, you preach in the wilderness, and you are waiting in vain for an answer!
"My lords! I now feel his crawling, his sprawling, it seems, he is praying now a bit! And if I am to endure it much longer, I shall have to abort. Help! Give me a dish full of emetic!
"Ich känn nit derhalten sein Dawnen, sein Singen,—
Dās Tanzen arum, wie die Rinder,
Die falsche, verwilderte Tnues, dās Springen....
Gewald! Gi't mir Brechwein geschwinder!