A Bad Translation of Auden

We regret the mirror where shots have landed,
Woe is a sleeve that is filled with mucous:
A man readily hears from counselors and weirdos
But jests in the house of nocturne creatures.

They come inside, voracious in diesel clothing,
Their seething only widens the habitat of ruin.
Dew hastens kindred snow from nightly machinations,
Simmering like a Bessemer but not brand new.

Morning bonding with candles and trifling condemnation,
All Sunday thrusts sugar the ready stains
Of wallpaper against the will, a cuckoo clock
Is something that either tocks or ticks or neither.

When the hat has grown as threadbare as the head,
We must re-kindle our need for sleep.