I, Bertolt Brecht, come from the black forests.

My mother carried me into the cities

When I was in her belly. And the chill of the forests

Will be in me till my dying day.

The asphalt city is my home. Furnished

From the outset with every sacramental perquisite:

With newspapers. And tobacco. And brandy.

Distrustful and idle and contented to the end.

I am friendly to people. I put on

A top hat because that’s what they do.

I tell myself: They are animals with a particular smell.

And I tell myself: What of it, so am I.

In the morning I like to set a woman or two

In my empty rocking chairs

And I look at them insouciantly and I say to them:

In me you have someone on whom there is no relying.

Towards evening it’s men I gather round about me

And we address our company as gentlemen.

They park their feet on my table

And say: Things are looking up. And I don’t ask: When?