DER teufel’s los in Bal Mabille,
Dere’s hell-fire in de air,
De fiddlers can’t blay noding else
Boot Orphée aux Enfers:
Vot makes de beoples howl mit shoy?
Da capo—Bravo!—bis!!
It’s a Deutscher aus Amerikà:
Hans Breitmann in Paris.
Dere’s silber toughts vot might hafe peen,
Dere’s golden deeds vot must:
Der Hans ish come to Frankenland
On one eternal bust.
Der same old rowdy Argonaut
Vot hoont de same oldt vleece,
A hafin all de foon dere ish—
Der Breitmann in Paris.
Mit a gal on eider shoulder
A holdin py his beard,
He tantz de Cancan, sacrament!
Dill all das Volk vas skeered.
Like a roarin hippopatamos,
Mit a kangarunic shoomp,
Dey feared he’d smash de Catacombs,
Each dime der Breitmann bump.
De pretty liddle cocodettes
Lofe efery dings ish new,
“D’ou vient il donc ce grand M’sieu?
O sacré nom de Dieu!”
In fain dey kicks deir veet on high,
And sky like vlyin geese,
Dey can not kick de hat afay
From Breitmann in Paris.
O vhere vas id der Breitmann life?
Oopon de Rond Point gay,
Vot shdreet lie shoost pehind his house?
La rue de Rabelais.
Aroundt de corner Harper’s shtands
Vhere Yankee drinks dey mill,
Vhile shdraight ahet, agross de shdreet,
Der lies de Bal Mabille.
Id’s all along de Elysées,
Id’s oop de Boulevarce,
He’s sampled all de weinshops,
Und he’s vinked at efery garce.
Dou schveet plack-silken Gabrielle,
O let me learn from dee,
If ’tis in lofe—or absinthe drunks,
Dat dis wild ghost may pe?
Und dou may’st kneel in Notre Dame,
Und veep away dy sin,
Vhile I go vight at Barriere balls,
Oontil mine poots cave in;
Boot if ve pray, or if ve sin—
Vhile nodings ish refuse,
Tis all de same in Paris here,
So long ash l’on s’amuse.
O life, mein dear, at pest or vorst,
Ish boot a vancy ball,
Its cratest shoy a vild gallop,
Vhere madness goferns all.
Und should dey toorn ids gas-light off,
Und nefer leafe a shbark,
Sdill I’d find my vay to Heafen—or—
Dy lips, lofe, in de dark.
O crown your het mit roses, lofe!
O keep a liddel sprung!
Oonendless wisdom ish but dis:
To go it vhile you’re yung!
Und Age vas nefer coom to him,
To him Spring plooms afresh,
Who finds a livin’ spirit in
Der Teufel und der Flesh.
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