When I came back, my honourable vestibule was blocked, I found, by the dirt. The poet was ditching close by my residence.
I couldn’t blame his conduct, however, because no one could see my home. I don’t hang out a sign like a quack doctor.
It occurred to me that I would strike into his cottage, and snatch the best poems from his drawer, and sell them with my name.
“I must secure the international copyright,” I said.
But I couldn’t dare it, my impulse being thwarted.
I am no wicked reporter, don’t you see?
I hid me in his historical iron pot all day.
N
Heine was posting around the following card:
No Shooting.