Heine’s Soliloquy

The C or not the C, that is the question— Whether ’tis nobler for the dough to suffer Mistakes and errors of outrageous umpires, Or to cut loose against a band of robbers, And, by protesting, lose it? To kick—to beef— To beef!—perchance to scream: “Ah, there, you dub, You ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻!!!” But that sharp flow of breath, what would it cost, A sloughing off of these one hundred bucks, Must give me pause—there’s the respect That makes dumb agony of two long weeks; For who would bear the crazy work of Klem, Cy Rigler’s slips, the raw mistakes of Quigley, The guesses wild of Orth and Hank O’Day. When he himself might his quietus make With a few cuss words! Who would Brennan bear, Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense, But for the dread of dropping all that dough, Of losing all those togs, deprived of which No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still. Thus money does make cowards of us all; And thus the native Bronix disposition Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc; And ravings of my own fantastic sort Are all unheard, though my long silence does Disgrace the name of Heine.