Why do tyrants like to write poetry

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Christian Wagner, suicide
Felix Dahn, call for the formation of the volunteer corps
Fallersleben, Syracusaise
Heine, To Hoffmann von Fallersleben

Christian Wagner

What is it that gives life proper consecration?
It’s dying, the self-chosen, free one.

Proudly resolved to stand out from the stubble
Lift the herds once to excrete.

The barrier gate of freedom with the bare
And push open unprotected feet.

Sleepy lust for existence in a stupid heart
To be vigorously eradicated by fresh action.

Suicide! Who first invented you?
A son of gods bound in the slave's yoke,

When the tyrant's messengers fetched him,
The chains struck the despot in the face.

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Christian Wagner

Felix Dahn

Like horns, like blaring fanfares
Trumpets charging to the cavalry attack
The call comes out: "Volunteers, come out!"
This is the limit! Has a divine judgment
An ice and snow ordal in Russia's fields
Judge the tyrant: he succumbed!
The tyranny falls, the world becomes free!
Ahead, you Prussians: yours is the lead!

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Hoffmann von Fallersleben

"God preserve the tyrant,
the tyrant Dionys!
Even if he gives us little of salvation
and showed much of calamity,
I wish he lived a long time
moreover fervently implore:
God preserve the tyrant
the tyrant Dionys! "

An old woman spoke in the temple
one day this prayer.
The tyrant just passed
I would like to know what she is doing:
"Tell me, you dear old woman,
say what was your prayer? "-
"Oh, I was just praying
only for your majesty.

When I was a young girl
I often plead to heaven:
"Dear God, give a better one!"
And a worse one came up;
and so came a second, third
ever worse tyran;
That's why I only beg today:
"God keep you from now on!"

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Hoffmann von Fallersleben

Heinrich Heine

O Hoffmann, German Brutus,
How brave and bold you are
You set lice for the prince
In the fur, in the ermine.

And whoever cares, scratches himself
You are finally scratching yourselves dead
The thirty-six tyrants
And our misery ends.

O Hoffmann, German Brutus,
Called by Fallersleben,
With your bugs
Will you free the land for us?

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Heinrich Heine