A keresés eredménye

The ballad of Jimmy lips

I rode through San Alfredo, in the dim light of the day
Or maybe through el Paso, kinda lost track on the way
for forty days and forty nights I ride through barren land
And everywhere my photograph, and it says 'Wanted man'
They said I was a dangerous one, roaming wild and free
a cowboy of few words, and that my six-gun, spoke for me
 
(WHISTLING)
 
Now i was born James Anderson, an old farmhand by trade
Of the whistle of my big red lips, every man was sore afraid
some people called me 'Jimmy', some people called me 'Dutch'
But in the West few men survive, if they know too much
wherever people heard my tune, they soon ran out of wood
and the undertaker would tip his hat, for business was good..
 
(WHISTLING)
 
When I arrived at Daisy Town, where they dig the iron ore
I saw the poster with my face, now had two zeroes more
And Doug the bounty Hunter sneered 'you're a heavensent for me'
I whirled around, and flicked my lips, and my Six-gun spoke for me..
At night I shot up the saloon, of old Samuel McBoone
And the bald and drunk piano guy, would play my lonesome tune..
 
(WHISTLING)
 
With elbows on the counter, i watched the swinging doors
when a small fat man presented, running sweat from every pore
they call me 'Moe the Thinker', he whispered in my ear
his people skills and dufflecoat, clearly were top-tier
If you are short ten thousand bucks, I have a daring plan
I downed two shots of whiskey, and then I shook his hand..
 
(APRUPT WHISTLING)
 
Now I sit in county jail, my shoulder full of lead
maybe the thinkers plan was not quite as good as he said
He whispered 'it's ten grand for you, if you knock on the sheriff's door
and tell him 'Hi, I'm Jimmy' and you're the son of a whore
Now give me those ten grand, that you swore on your life
to any soul who'd bring you Jim lips, dead or alive
 
(WHISTLING)
 
I'm sittin' on my bronco, right where the gallows stand
his neck tied to a cattle rope that is in the sheriff's hand
when the judge has read the verdict loud, that will be my doom
the townfolk and coroner wait and whistle my old tune
the deputy, he stares me down, with a glimmer in his eyes
when you hear the shrewd director yell...
 
Cut !! Goddammit, that's the third time now for the damn rope to break,
and I'm all out of 35mm film, ladies, that's it for today,
we're gonna shoot the hanging scene tomorrow.
It's a wrap..
 

No, you won't have my sons no more

Versions: #1
ye senators, i wanted to inform you
you great actors of state, and high-born ones
don't pick my words apart again, I've warned you
you took the farm, and now you're coming for my sons
i nurtured them, and love 'em with abandon
and every year much more so than before
wrapped them in diapers, that my wife was handin'
and no, you won't have my sons anymore
no, you won't have my sons anymore
 
i taught them have respect for every creature
to feel pity, to feel mercy and forgive
contrary to what in your world i'm seeing
I don't stand for what you're burdening them with
they do not have a need for all your venom
they do not have a need for all your lies
i won't watch them shipped back in sacks of linen
and you won't watch them bleed and hear their cries
and putting up with you is quite a chore
but you, won't have my sons anymore
 
I taught them to be men among mere creatures
and now all men are dead or are in jail
the scum you are, I read it by your features
and reasoning with you's to no avail
those taxes that I paid, you never earned them
you bend the law to your liking, yes you do
those taxes that I paid, you'll never learn then
were just a bribe to keep them away from you
you wrote me these ten letters, go write some more..
you won't have my sons anymore
no you won't have my sons anymore
 
i sent them to your schools, what did you teach them
to university, what have they learned
you filled their head with dross, so I couldn't reach them
you made a dollar for every nickel that they earned
those dollars and utopias you presented
and spinning yarn you never seem to tire of
are just a substitute that you invented
for a father's wisdom and a mother's love
you made a lot of money, go make some more
cause you won't have my sons no more
no you won't have my sons no more
 
I'll rather have them homestead in the sierra
than have them be your well trained puppy dogs
I know of all your plans, your 'war on terra'
you fillers of latrines, and fat happy hogs
they won't believe those things that you're pretending
when you read your script with a painted plastered face
your sons grew rich with loot and money lending
for those are the great virtues of your race
go farm some land or dig some iron ore
cause you won't have my sons no more
no, you won't have my sons no more
 
I'd rather be a gypsy ever roaming
and show them all the world has got to show
than make them slave to all your constant moaning
and set 'em up and put 'em on death row
they will grow strong and see their children's children
as i still breathe, this is my only aim
and they won't use the toys of war you're building
to protect some other scum's ill gotten gain
pour yourself a pint of pity, and some more
you won't have my sons anymore
no, you won't have my sons anymore
 

Sometimes I See Pictures in My Mind

Sometimes I see pictures in my mind
Of large windows in columned halls
Of walls and marble staircases
Of chandeliers with shining crystals
Of flames in open fireplaces
Of beds with velvet baldachins
 
The carpet has long been worn-out
You know what—I'll just roll it up
It doesn't go with the wallpaper anyway
Sometimes, I feel ashamed that I don't live there
 
Sometimes I see pictures in my mind
Of colourful awnings and white trellises
With wild roses and tralling vine
Of gardens so big you can't see where they end
Of box trees shaped into statuettes
A gravel path is making a nobel noise with every step
 
The flowers outside the window are tired and grey
I won't plant any new ones
They wouldn't blossom here anyway, I do know that
Sometimes, I feel ashamed that I don't live there
 
Sometimes I see pictures in my mind
Of the smiles of well-spoken ladies
Of tanned faces talking
Pictures like the ones you can find on cigarette ads
Gold-plated rakes on green blankets
Foggy glasses and coloured jettons
 
It's time again to take my shoes to the cobbler
My friends and I, we drink beer instead of wine
When it comes to playing bridge, I haven't got the slightest clue
Sometimes I feel ashamed that I'm not one of them
 
Sometimes I see pictures in my mind
Of a piece of bread in mutilated hands
Of an old woman, whom they drag out alone
From under collapsing walls
Of burnt faces buried in hands
Sometimes I feel ashamed for having felt ashamed
 
That's what I wanted to tell you—are you still listening?
No, you're asleep already, I guess the day has made you tired
I turn off the lights and I tuck you in closer
Sometimes I feel ashamed for being so happy anyway
 

Somewhere Always Some Dork Is Mowing

When summer comes, it's not an easy going,
somewhere always some dork is mowing.
A mower Rambo mows me into my doom,
he's mowing through the walls, I can hear him in my room.
The emission of thick clouds of blue exhaust
brings him joy and ecstasy, at any cost.
He slaughters everything, and he is merciless
towards everything, that looks remotely like a blade of grass.
With lawn tractors or other noisy tools,
they are always around, those crazy fools.
From Oberpfaffenhofen to the city of Leer,
some dork is always mowing out there.
 
My neighbour has four nasty snappy fighting dogs,
they shit and bark all day, they chew my wooden clogs.
There's another neighbour, playing drums obsessively,
one cleans his car, while basses rumble constantly.
When having sex one husband's often battered out,
all that is not disturbing and not really loud.
But on the plot across, a grass blade annihilator,
a daisy killer and a hedgehog executioner,
a motor mower tyrant, a two-stroke nut,
a monstrous grass-exploiter starts to mow and cut.
He starts his motor mower, thinks that it's really cute,
to ruin vegetation with his phallic substitute.
 
When summer comes, it's not an easy going,
somewhere always some dork is mowing.
A real lawn fetishist needs neither drink nor food,
he only interrupts to check if the height is good.
He rages till the night falls down, till the sun is low,
of course he has a blower, for the grass to blow.
Thereafter, armed with blowtorch and a knife,
he erases every dandelion's hated life.
When the first sprouts show and the first green's glowing,
somewhere some dork is always mowing.
When my work is done, I must pull my hair,
'cause some dork is always mowing out there.
 
I'm sitting in a deck chair near the guesthouse „Island Bay“,
and I enjoy this lovely, mild, and peaceful holiday.
The siskin happ'ly cheers, the chaffinch sings its song,
a sniper cheeps behind a bush, a cuckoo comes along.
A bumblebee is bumbling, a bee follows a fragrance,
I hear a quiet humming from a mower in the distance.
A soothing, pious charm surrounds my being out there,
to trust in this deceptive calmness, I don't really dare.
The noise attack surprises me, my Landlady is the source,
she just started her mower, she handles it with force.
If devil's grandma, down in hell, would mow around their pool,
She'd surely mow her lawn like that, exactly with this tool!
 
When summer comes it's not an easy going,
somewhere always some dork is mowing.
With earplugs, safety glasses, steel-capped shoes,
he fights against the quiet, and he gives me the blues.
He fires a machine gun salvo with his big brushcutter,
and liquidates the grass roots, leaving a tremendous clutter.
He crushes useful earthworms with a grimly oath,
he fights for law and order, and he brings them both.
No begging can help, no whimpering, ooh!,
the next lunatic mower is close to you,
to your left and to your right, and in front anyway,
dorks are mowing grass, at any time of the day.
 
I try to lure Miss Ingeborg into my garden bower,
I play the robin and the love dove, with all my power.
First I serve prosecco, then a liqueur, sweet and sheer,
she nibbles on confectionary, I nibble on her ear.
I hold her in my arms, we sink into the moss
when suddenly, behind the bower, starts a hellish noise.
At first there roars a scarifyer, then sequentially
a vacuum, trimmer, chopper, and eventually
a tiller, plowing purposefully through the land,
and a chainsaw massacre as a highlight in the end!
So sorry, dear Miss Ingeborg, I'm getting dressed again,
such insane noises do not boost the stamina of men.
 
When summer comes, it's only easy going
inside the house, where you can't hear them mowing.
But the worst of all tortures is the abrupt,
eerie silence, when the mowing has stopped.
Knowing it will soon start somewhere else for sure,
that's a nerve-wracking status, it's hard to endure.
You only know, when one of them has finished his show,
it's just a matter of time, and the next will start to mow.
Don't you know the song,
„The gardener is always the killer“? 1
I tell you, reality is much, much worse!
It is bad smelling, nasty, brutal, unfair!
Some dork is always mowing somewhere,
some dork is always mowing out there!
 

• 1. Another famous song by Reinhard Mey: „Der Mörder ist immer der Gärtner“

A quarter to seven

Versions: #2
Dark heavy clouds gather on the horizon
Like a ragged grey quilt in the sky
Dusk sets in, darkness is rising
Lights going on by and by
'Where have you been so long, dinner is ready,
take your shoes off, they're covered in loam'
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 
And it should be Saturday and ring cake prepared
The table set, all ready to eat
And I'm handing out the portions with pride
My old cushions's there on my seat
Cocoa is steaming in my mug from Aunt Helen
Chocolate grated all over its foam
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 
A letter arrived in the mailbox today
That leaves you confused, in a daze
Anna and John, the perfect couple
Decided to go separate ways
You used to envy the match made in heaven
And yet all the love has just gone
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 
And father should listen to his radio show
Absorbed in the evening news
His look at me says, 'just don't disturb me now'
But at a second glance he frowns at my shoes
'Look at the state of you, go sort yourself out,
it seems like weeks your hair has last seen a comb'
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 
My skin turns thinner as I grow older
Beyond a cure for those afflictions of mine
Sorrow is deeper, comfort is colder
Not every wound heals with time
What has become of the once cheerful boy
Without a care in a world of his own
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 
Just one more time to find a place of sanctuary
With that innocent free spirit of mine
To ride through unlit roads to safety
And to trust everything will be fine
Sometimes I wish things remained as they were
And each path had one direction alone
Sometimes I wish it was once again a quarter to seven
And I wish I was back at home
 

A swine's dignity shall be inviolable¹

It was in a narrow stall,
On concrete floor, not befitting her status,
That she first saw the light-bulb of day.
She was the piglet number four,
Three others lying on top of her.
A hustle that nearly choked her!
After only two weeks of breastfeeding taskwork
Someone came and took mother away,
But even after the memory had faded,
Sometimes the young swine was reminded
of her mother's words:
'A swine's dignity shall be inviolable!'
 
The prison soon became her home.
Just in one spot day in, day out.
And always stuck in one's own crap.
The good sense of smell, the stench!
She grew weary, she grew sick,
And when she grew quite ill she got injections.
She was commanded to mate, --
She never accepted that,
That being a pig only consisted of breeding and fattening.
And when somebody broke her will,
She'd remember what her mother said:
'A swine's dignity shall be inviolable!'
 
Then the cattle lorry drove up,
She was seized at tail and ears
Together with her fellow sufferers.
They shook and squeaked so fearfully
And drove and stood for hours on end
Cooped up even closer now than usual.
A swine is wise and thus forebodes
The tragic situation.
She knew that this was going to be her last stop.
She recognised the butchery at once,
And she went without resistance.
A swine's dignity shall be inviolable!
 
She never got to see the sky,
Was never allowed to walk in the field,
Never sat down in dry and fresh straw.
She never wallowed in the mud,
Happily coupled and weltered in a hollow --
How could I eat this picture of misery?
Holding the menu in my hands,
I think the pig outside the box²
And will probably never be able to forget these images.
I don't want, you poor bugger³,
Be complicit in your suffering
Just because I visited this restaurant.
And I will order from now on
The cauliflower au gratin.
A swine's dignity shall be inviolable!
 

I love you

Versions: #2
I've filled countless pages,
I've made up stories,
I'm not stuck for any answer,
I've mimed the thinker and the clown.
I've oozed out my wisdom
And some stupidity as well, it seems.
I've talked as if it were for my life
And yet I've only meant one thing all along:
 
I love you
I need you
Trust in you
I rely on you
Wouldn't want to live without you
I love you
 
I've tried to speak in ever new images
But now I'm running out of time.
I can't beat around seven bushes anymore,
I'll say it---simple and straightforward.
I'll say it simply, and I write
Upon your mirror, on the bench,
On the foggy window,
Which I invented so many detours to say:
 
I love you
I need you
Trust in you
I rely on you
Wouldn't want to live without you
I love you
 
Sometimes, in my thoughts, I see the two of us
Standing on a desolate station platform.
Invisible bounds between us
And one of us stays, one has to go.
Loudspeaker voices and doors are slamming
And waving from the leaving train.
I want to say it ever and ever again
And yet I never tell you often enough:
 
I love you
I need you
Trust in you
I rely on you
Wouldn't want to live without you
I love you
 

Ballad of the railway

A dense fog descended upon the big and foreign town
A long day of work was behind me, I was weary and languid
Too tired for the highway, too late for today's last flight
But I wanted to go home
And so I found out
A train would be leaving at midnight
 
There was still some time, I didn't know where to go, so I stood at the station
A magnificent building of days long gone, scrambling, shoving, and pushing all about
I saw the trav'ling ones, the waiting ones, and the stranded of the night
So much indifference
So much sorrow and woe
Beneath so much ice cold pomp
 
I stepped out on the open platform, the dank air kept me awake
I shivered, turned up my collar and gazed after my breath
From the darkness hovered over the rails three headlights, my train arrived
A carriage door slammed
It was warm in the train
And I was all alone in the compartment
 
Soundlessly we rolled away and the lights of the town vanished in milky fog
And ever faster lit up windows and suburb stations flew by
One more level crossing, some headlights, and the world out there disappeared
The light from my compartment fell white
On the rail track ballast
And I could anticipate the dark country
 
And through the darkness got
The monotonous sound
Of the wheels on the stretch of tracks
A solitary song
Along the iron road
 
They stood there at the railway line with weatherbeaten skin
With their spades they had notched veins through the land
With pickaxes and hammers they had moved mountains
And put sleepers onto gravel and then rails thereon
 
In bitter cold, in torrid heat, in rain day after day
The nights spent on a paillasse on the floor of a wooden shed
And up again at break of day to earn their meagre pay
And another fortune yet for the iron baron
 
And soon the iron horse snorted about, emitting sparks
Some novel industries and some new empires emerged
Some incalculable wealth, but on every inch of tracks
Every bridge and every tunnel, there were tears and blood and sweat
 
The railway carried progress---technological revolution---
To every corner, until the most far-away station
Carried goods from the harbours to the borders of the Alps
Connected towns and people and brought wealth upon the state
 
But the tragic sticks to every great invention
That it can serve for peace but for wars as well, in time
Endless trains of armament soon rolled by day and night
War material and cannons were their clamant freight
 
Already were the stations crowded with the army men
Some cheers upon their lips and with flowers on their guns
In waggons draped with flags and watchwords for the win
To Lemberg or to Lüttich, to Krakow or to Mons
 
In the drumfire of Verdun the triumph died away
The trains turned into lazarets, and the railways witnessed now
The retreat of the beaten and---in defiance of warlords---
In a waggon in Compiègne forest, the capitulation
 
Millions dead on the battlefield, pointless misery
The ones who got home found hardships, distress, and unemployment
But on the soil of collapse already sprouted
The traffickers, the war profiteers, the speculation
 
But also from the confusion of entangled politics
Emerged the frail and tender sprout of the first republic
But small-mindedness, stupidity and violence stomped it down
With combat boots all on their way to the thousand year long Reich
 
The monsters were the rulers, the world watched silently
And again they said: 'Wheels must turn now for our victory!'
Thus started the darkest chapter of the nations
The darkest of the winged wheel: The deportation
 
Locked inside the boxwagons, penned in, like livestock
Starving, distraught, naked and freezing were they
Helpless women and men, doters and children even
On the bitter journey, whose goal was the death camp
 
But then the fury of the humbled descended upon them
No village was reprieved, no stone left on a stone
And bombs were cast until the country was ablaze with flames
The cities eradicated and scorched was all the land
 
The war was much more gruelling than any war before
And punished were the people who conjured it up outrageously
Through wreckage and through ruins they all roamed hungrily
The survivors, the bombed out ones, no way forward anymore
 
And ever longer were the refugee tracks every day
And strayed through a country that was razed to the ground
The will to live alone forced them to carry on
The folornness forced to try the impossible
 
To still jump up when there was a hoarding train leaving somewhere
When there was a cluster of people hanging on every door
To sit upon a buffer, on a footstep with some luck
With hope for just some flour, potatoes, or some lard
 
What lay on the embankment was gathered up by kids
And many an honest man stole from a coal train
And then returned the trains with the repatriates on board
Wounded, lacerated, tattered and threadbare
 
Many a drama occurred next to those tracks!
Searching, tears of joy, for those reunited
Waiting, hoping, and asking: 'Will he be with them today?'
Many came abortive, and many left alone
 
Engines and waggons, shot to pieces were patched up
And left loose on a net of tracks that was mostly bizarre
And the pulse began to beat, and from nothing soon arose---
Loaded with hopes and dreams---a new country
 
And through the break of dawn got
The monotonous sound
Of the wheels on the stretch of tracks
A melancholic song
Along the iron road
 
The chugging of wheels over a turnout brought me back to the scene
Bleary-eyed I had woken up, almost at the goal of my ride
I rubbed my eyes and stretched a bit, the neon light shone dim
And in the empty cabin
Between waking and dream
I saw them one more time
 
The Adler, the Flying Hamburger, the Prussian P-8
And the Legendary 05 snorted through the night before me
An opposite train on the other tracks pulled me out of my dreams
A look at the watch
Ten minutes to go
And I'd be home for breakfast
 
For moments I could look into lit up windows outside
Saw the people on their way to work stand at the suburban stations
Saw the headlights of the cars before the boom gate at the railway crossing
And a hope lay
Within the new day
And within the sunrise
 

Go And Catch the Wind

On the cheerless, long days,
When I am lonesome,
Not knowing where to go,
Then I wish I could be with you.
 
Then I seek to be near you
But find it nowhere
And I might
Just as well say: 'Go and catch the wind.'
 
In the cold, long nights
When love is silent
And no star shows up
Then I wish I could be with you.
 
Your smiles that comfort me
I find nowhere
And I might
Just as well say: 'Go and catch the wind.'
 
When the early, fresh morning
Sings its songs
Bringing along expectation
Then I wish I could be with you.
 
Your eyes that I love
I find nowhere
And I might
Just as well say: 'Go and catch the wind.'
 
And I might
Just as well say: 'Go and catch the wind.'
 
Please alert me when spelling, print or other inconsistencies are spotted. When spotting them myself I tend to lapse into a *#@%* mood!