Der Einsame

Wer einsam ist, der hat es gut,
Weil keiner da, der ihm was tut.

Ihn stört in seinem Lustrevier
Kein Tier, kein Mensch und kein Klavier,
Und niemand gibt ihm weise Lehren,
Die gut gemeint und bös zu hören.

Der Welt entronnen, geht er still
In Filzpantoffeln, wann er will.

Sogar im Schlafrock wandelt er
Bequem den ganzen Tag umher.

Er kennt kein weibliches Verbot,
Drum raucht und dampft er wie ein Schlot.

Geschützt vor fremden Späherblicken,
Kann er sich selbst die Hose flicken.

Liebt er Musik, so darf er flöten,
Um angenehm die Zeit zu töten,
Und laut und kräftig darf er prusten,
Und ohne Rücksicht darf er husten,
Und allgemach vergißt man seiner.
Nur allerhöchstens fragt mal einer:
Was, lebt er noch? Ei schwerenot,
Ich dachte längst, er wäre tot.

Kurz, abgesehn vom Steuerzahlen,
Läßt sich das Glück nicht schöner malen.

Worauf denn auch der Satz beruht:
Wer einsam ist, der hat es gut.

Collection: 
German
1904
Wilhelm Busch

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