Three lords out hawking boasted falcon stains,

and pleased, they longed for ale and home.

But then an old man guided them

on through the fog. Those horsemen jerked the reins

to stop before a triple tomb.

There rose a three-fold stench that made its way

into each mouth and nose and eye,

and this they knew at once. Three dead men lay

a long time rotting in death's vile decay

after they'd been left to die.

And underneath the storm-flaps of each hood,

their hunters’ hearing was still good.

The old man's words, though, hissed, blade-thin:

“The needle's eye was what they could not thread,

and they will never enter in.”

Still warm and supple from the hunt, they kept

its vigor as they felt its heat.

But seizing on them from behind, chill shivers gripped

them. Ice drilled down into their sweat.

Der König von Münster

Der König war geschoren;

nun ging ihm die Krone zu weit

und bog ein wenig die Ohren,

in die von Zeit zu Zeit

gehässiges Gelärme

aus Hungermäulern fand.

Er saß, von wegen der Wärme,

auf seiner rechten Hand,

mürrisch und schwergesäßig.

Er fühlte sich nicht mehr echt:

der Herr in ihm war mäßig,

und der Beischlaf war schlecht.