The gentlemen in tails and starched chest,
polished, ironed and self-confident,
in the buttonhole the chrysanthemum.
The ladies in silk and crepe-sateng,
make-up and powdered and, huch, so mongdäng -
in a word: Crême de la Crême!
And it's dancing on the right and dancing on the left,
forgetting the worries
the millers, the lions, the severings
on the parliamentary evening.

But the competition raises a murder:
See your clean worker representatives!
Traitors are it from head to toe -
therefore into the KPD!

And again, it's in tails and paint
the prominent Berlin political pack,
because one appreciates Krestinski's receptions.
There is supper on silver plates,
decorated with sickle and hammer,
And the food has seven courses.
It raises the representative of the Soviet state
his champagne glass and calls with Emfase:
Long live the fighting proletariat!
And the guests sip on the glass.

But the competition raises a murder:
There you have the Bolshevik representatives!
That's what she looks like, the Soviet idea -
therefore into the SPD!

So now rages the press for weeks now.
One insults the other party
with a played indignation pose.
But if Krestinski understands cocktails,
and if Mr. Löbe turns in the waltz clock,
That, it seems to me, is jacket like pants.
Because the big shots are the same everywhere
and show the same endeavor
with us and in the Red Soviet Empire:
to live on the back of others!

Why, Prolet, the wild nagging?
You have chosen them, they are your representatives!
And the next time you choose as ever
again S. or KPD!

1929, 9 Tyll