Fate certainly was most unkind,
you cannot but agree.
The Empire’s preyed upon my mind,
I’m spared nothing — pray for me!
My life was one of toil and stress,
a personal Gehenna.
My memories are of duress
abroad — and in Vienna.
Think of my relatives, my wife—
through to my jubilee.
If words can capture so much strife:
Nothing but woe for me!
My relatives brought me no joy,
I barely persevered,
then one fine day I said: ahoy,
when Kathi Schratt appeared.
The actress is my only friend,
though somewhat past her prime.
Her spending I must reprehend,
She hasn’t saved a dime.
But Austria, and Kathi too,
could be quite delightful,
so let’s hope we’ll muddle through,
though finances are frightful.
A gift of gold’s a welcome sight,
but honour says: beware!
And still I dub the Jew a knight—
he’s plenty, and to spare.
Often my rage keeps me awake,
there’s so much dismal news.
At Ischl on my summer break
I’m cheered up by some Jews
who’re making money near and far,
their profits nice and fat,
not least out of this splendid war—
Why didn’t I think of that!
The only time that I recall
a cause for celebration
was my nephew’s final curtain call—
it was the land’s salvation! (He wakes up.)
They broke the news with bated breath
and due commiseration.
I chuckled at the Archduke’s death:
Thank God, He’s spared the nation!
Welcome! I said, and meant it too,
As mourners stood in line,
and laughed and cried, as people do,
and said: The pleasure’s mine!
It serves him right, he’s paid the price
for wishing me in my grave.
A skinflint — that was his great vice—
I’m spared, him none could save!
A happy day it was for me,
for me and the whole land,
when with formal Spanish rites we
disposed of Ferdinand.
My nephew’s cortège — small, alas,
as if we really cared!
His funeral was just third class—
so some expense was spared!
That story’s done, now here’s the gloss:
his death was welcome, for
to compensate us for our loss
I started off the war
If Princip hadn’t seized his chance,
say, if he hadn’t dared,
we’d still be in our sleepy trance,
that deadlock we were spared!
So let us all now praise the Lord!
My cross has turned blood-red.
The people, of their own accord,
give gold for iron, not bread! (He falls asleep.)
My pain was almost infinite—
see how my Empire fared.
The common people did their bit,
they too were nothing spared!
Do I regret it? Not at all!
Our special new alliance
means I continue to walk tall
and bid our foes defiance.
Wilhelm’s a dashing soldier,
but blood-brotherhood? — pure fiction!
They’re leaning on my shoulder—
oh please spare me the affliction!
For his support brings me no hope,
just makes me short of breath.
I really cannot see the joke
of staging Siegfried’s Death.
To master fate I’ll always try,
but it’s a bitter pill.
The Prussians simply bleed us dry,
and make me foot the bill!
It’s not a real relationship,
I hate the whole caboodle!—
so “special” it gives me the pip,
I’m just their bloody poodle!
And when we swore blood-brotherhood
with caviar and schnapps,
I call it shabby gratitude
to spare us only scraps.
If I’m the horse, he sits on top,
I follow his direction,
a crazy rider we can’t stop—
a high price for protection!
The people thought at first: hooray,
we love good fellowship,
but look at where we are today—
he didn’t spare the whip!
I fear I gambled like a goof—
he gets right up my nose.
Though people’s cheers might raise the roof,
our prices are what rose!
A horse cannot work out where we
have planned our journey’s end.
That Prussian, though, oh spare me
for he drives me round the bend!
With bloody flanks I twist and turn
in vain! — I took the bait.
Triumphant when he jerks a rein,
I must capitulate!
I’ve got that Prussian on my back,
I’m mute — I dare not groan.
He tramples all things underfoot—
nor does he spare my throne!
There is no limit to my strife
and anger with those brutes!
To think that at my stage in life
I lick the Prussian’s boots!
Why ever did I take the plunge
with that man into war?
That blot, alas, I can’t expunge,
so spare me, speak no more!
And why is everything askew?
Am I not my own master?
Yet there is nothing I can do—
he’d drop me, then disaster!
When King Edward came to Ischl,
our friendship unimpaired,
if I’d made that link official,
the war I’d have been spared!
Berlin papers cry “by jingo!”,
yes, even Kladderadatsch,
but in Vienna’s lingo
that’s shambolic pallawatsch.
They keep reporting victories
which I’m meant to extol,
but none to put me at my ease—
spare me this wretched role!
It’s history now, those 70 years
of Empire in decline.
The History, when it once appears,
will all my deeds combine.
But muddle is my watchword,
and when all is said and done,
I led my peoples unperturbed,
nor spared them all their fun.
My song, alas, has one defect—
it’s endless, as you see—
since each new strophe must reflect
each new catastrophe.
Tribunals now would be a joke,
our revels now are ended.
At least when only ruins smoke
we save tobacco — splendid!
Yes, history will still record
whatever comes my way,
and it will have the final word
when we reach Judgment Day.
Titles I showered on every man,
my whiskers all could see,
but when this bloody war began
the rod was spared — for me!
The moral as a child I drew:
all effort was deluded.
Now I delight in muddling through—
both mud and blood included
I’m sprightly still as ever,
for release still unprepared,
for there’s much I still must suffer
to redeem you — if I’m spared!
I’m wiser now, I dare say,
than all those years ago,
for Chaos then was just a play—
now I want blood to flow.
I still play the father figure
and wear a laurel wreath.
May God preserve my vigour,
although I’ve caused Him grief!
Lord, it’s surely hard to measure,
for the time is not yet come
for me to say “What a pleasure”,
“Quite delightful”, “Are we done?”
So graciously I now will wait
until the world’s despaired.
The sentries at the Devil’s gate