The man who has no more the means to pay Is like a live bird plucked of every feather; His friends forget to greet him – that’s when they Don’t shun him like infection altogether. And what was sweet is bitter fruit today, While every sight and sound makes his soul sicken; Kindness itself grows hard and turns away, Thus fares the wretch whom poverty has stricken. The world’s one remedy for all this sorrow Is: “Go and drown yourself, you’re better dead; Do it today, don’t leave it for tomorrow.” But he whose stuffed purse shows him to be rich Is praised by all as better than fresh bread, And what he plans succeeds without a hitch.