Ég ætlaði fyrst að smella þessu í ljóðaþráðinn en fannst svo að hann ætti varla heima þar.
Þetta er textinn við Masters of War með Bob Dylan, klassík sem á ekki síður við í dag heldur en þegar það var samið.
Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain
You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins
How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
http://mbanna.radio4all.net/pub/archive4/mp3_2/bob%20dylan%20-%20masters%20of%20war.mp3
Snillingur hann Dylan
Já, það hef ég löngum sagt. Hann Bob lætur ekki að sér hæða. Hér er annað lag sem á ekki síður vel við nú í dag:
Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.
Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.
Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.
Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.
When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.
I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.
But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.
In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.
So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.
Já Bob klikkar ekki fremur en venjulega... John Brown... á einnig vel við á ófriðartímum...
John Brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore.
His mama sure was proud of him!
He stood straight and tall in his uniform and all.
His mama's face broke out all in a grin.
"Oh son, you look so fine, I'm glad you're a son of mine,
You make me proud to know you hold a gun.
Do what the captain says, lots of medals you will get,
And we'll put them on the wall when you come home."
As that old train pulled out, John's ma began to shout,
Tellin' ev'ryone in the neighborhood:
"That's my son that's about to go, he's a soldier now, you know."
She made well sure her neighbors understood.
She got a letter once in a while and her face broke into a smile
As she showed them to the people from next door.
And she bragged about her son with his uniform and gun,
And these things you called a good old-fashioned war.
Oh! Good old-fashioned war!
Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come.
They ceased to come for about ten months or more.
Then a letter finally came saying, "Go down and meet the train.
Your son's a-coming home from the war."
She smiled and went right down, she looked everywhere around
But she could not see her soldier son in sight.
But as all the people passed, she saw her son at last,
When she did she could hardly believe her eyes.
Oh his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off
And he wore a metal brace around his waist.
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she did not know,
While she couldn't even recognize his face!
Oh! Lord! Not even recognize his face.
"Oh tell me, my darling son, pray tell me what they done.
How is it you come to be this way?"
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And the mother had to turn her face away.
"Don't you remember, Ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home . . . acting proud.
You wasn't there standing in my shoes."
"Oh, and I thought when I was there, God, what am I doing here?
I'm a-tryin' to kill somebody or die tryin'.
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine."
Oh! Lord! Just like mine!
"And I couldn't help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink,
That I was just a puppet in a play.
And through the roar and smoke, this string is finally broke,
And a cannon ball blew my eyes away."
As he turned away to walk, his Ma was still in shock
At seein' the metal brace that helped him stand.
But as he turned to go, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand.
Hér er annað hugljúft kvæði, í þetta sinn frá Black Sabbath
generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of death's construction
In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds, oh lord yeah!
Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight?
They leave that role to the poor
Time will tell on their power minds
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess
Wait 'till their judgement day comes, yeah!
Now in darkness, world stops turning
As the war machine keeps burning
No more war pigs of the power
Hand of god has sturck the hour
Day of judgement, god is calling
On their knees, the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings
All right now!
Ljóð frá þeim æringjunum Hale og Pace
Some songs are very, very long...
This one isn't.
Skáldjöfurinn Tom Lehrer bregst ekki.
Hér er eitt sem fjallar um blessaða vorkomuna
Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here.
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring.
I do, don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes ev'ry Sunday a treat for me.
All the world seems in tune
On a spring afternoon,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
Ev'ry Sunday you'll see
My sweetheart and me,
As we poison the pigeons in the park.
When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide.
The sun's shining bright,
Ev'rything seems all right,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
Lalaalaalalaladoodiedieedoodoodoo
We've gained notoriety,
And caused much anxiety
In the Audubon Society
With our games.
They call it impiety,
And lack of propriety,
And quite a variety
Of unpleasant names.
But it's not against any religion
To want to dispose of a pigeon.
So if Sunday you're free,
Why don't you come with me,
And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
And maybe we'll do
In a squirrel or two,
While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment.
Except for the few we take home to experiment.
My pulse will be quickenin'
With each drop of strychnine
We feed to a pigeon.
It just takes a smidgin!
To poison a pigeon in the park.
Hér er eitt hugljúft lag sem fjallar um Vímus:
When the shades of night are falling,
Comes a fellow ev'ryone knows,
It's the old dope peddler,
Spreading joy wherever he goes.
Ev'ry evening you will find him,
Around our neighborhood.
It's the old dope peddler
Doing well by doing good.
He gives the kids free samples,
Because he knows full well
That today's young innocent faces
Will be tomorrow's clientele.
Here's a cure for all your troubles,
Here's an end to all distress.
It's the old dope peddler
With his powdered ha-happiness.
Hér er nostalgíst lag sem er óður til gömlu góðu suðurríkjanna:
I wanna go back to Dixie,
Take me back to dear ol' Dixie,
That's the only li'l ol' place for li'l ol' me.
Ol' times there are not forgotten,
Whuppin' slaves and sellin' cotton,
And waitin' for the Robert E. Lee.
(It was never there on time.)
I'll go back to the Swanee,
Where pellagra makes you scrawny,
And the Honeysuckle clutters up the vine
I really am a-fixin'
To go home and start a-mixin'
Down below that Mason-Dixon line.
Oh, poll tax, how I love ya, how I love ya,
My dear old poll tax.
Won'tcha come with me to Alabammy,
Back to the arms of my dear ol' Mammy,
Her cookin's lousy and her hands are clammy,
But what the hell, it's home.
Yes, for paradise the Southland is my nominee.
Jes' give me a ham hock and a grit of hominy.
I wanna go back to Dixie
I wanna be a dixie pixie
And eat cornpone 'til it's comin' outta my ears
I wanna talk with Southern gentlemen
And put my white sheet on again,
I ain't seen one good lynchin' in years.
The land of the boll weevil,
Where the laws are medieval,
Is callin' me to come and nevermore roam.
I wanna go back to the Southland,
That "y'all" and "shet-ma-mouth" land,
Be it ever so decadent,
There's no place like home.
Mér hefur reyndar alltaf þótt Masters of War heldur mótsagnakenndur texti, þar vísa ég til línanna:
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
Sjálfum finnst mér þetta heldur ofbeldisfullt fyrir texta sem talar gegn stríði.
Tom Lehrer tók fyrir svonefnd "folksongs" á snilldarlegan máta:
About a maid I'll sing a song,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I'll sing a song,
Who didn't have her fam'ly long.
Not only did she do them wrong,
She did ev'ryone of them in, them in,
She did ev'ryone of them in.
One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And we had to make do with gin, with gin,
We had to make do with gin.
Her mother she could never stand,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she could never stand,
And so a cyanide soup she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her face in a hideous grin.
She set her sister's hair on fire,
a-Rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her sister's hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flame rose high'r,
Danced around the funeral pyre,
Playin' a violin, -olin,
Playin' a violin.
She weighted her brother down with stones,
a-Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to Davy Jones.
All they ever found were some bones,
And occasional pieces of skin, of skin,
Occasional pieces of skin.
One day when she had nothing to do,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two,
And served him up as an Irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited the neighbors in.
And when at last the police came by,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the police came by,
Her little pranks she did not deny.
To do so she would have had to lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying, she knew, was a sin.
My tragic tale I won't prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic tale I won't prolong,
And if you do not enjoy my song,
You've yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You should never have let me begin, begin,
You should never have let me begin.
David Sylvian, alltaf djúpur!
I opened up the pathway of the heart
The flowers died embittered from the start
That night I crossed the bridge of sighs and I surrendered
I looked back and glimpsed the outline of a boy
His life of sorrows now collapsing into joy
And tonight the stars are all aligned and I surrender
My mother cries beneath a southern sky and I surrender
Recording angels and the poets of the night
Bring back the trophies of the battles that we fight
Searchlights fill the open skies and I surrender
Outrageous cries of love have called me back
Derailed the trains of thought, demolished wayward tracks
You tell me I've no need to wonder why I just surrender
I stand too close to see the sleight of hand
How she found this child inside the frightened man
Tonight I'm learning how to fly and I surrender
I've travelled all this way for your embrace
Enraptured by the recognition on your face
Hold me now while my old life dies tonight and I surrender
My mother cries beneath the open skies and I surrender
An ancient evening just before the fall
The light in your eyes, the meaning of it all
Birds fly and fill the summer skies and I surrender
She throws the burning books into the sea
"Come find the meaning of the word inside of me"
It's alright the stars are all aligned and I surrender
My mother cries beneath the moonlit skies and I surrender
My body turns to ashes in her hands
The disappearing world of footprints in the sand
Tell me now that this love will never die and I'll surrender
My mother cries beneath the open skies and I surrender
Afi minn og amma mín,
út' á Bakka búa.
Þau eru bæði sæt og fín,
svo þangaði vil ég fljúga.
-
Já maður sér að menn eru farnir að slá um sig með Tom Lehrer hér, en hér er einn magnaður texti fyrir þá sem þurfa að læra, utanbókar, nöfn á öllum frumefnum í komandi vorprófum:
There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium,
And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium,
And nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium,
And iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium,
Europium, zirconium, lutetium, vanadium,
And lanthanum and osmium and astatine and radium,
And gold and protactinium and indium and gallium,
<gasp>
And iodine and thorium and thulium and thallium.
There's yttrium, ytterbium, actinium, rubidium,
And boron, gadolinium, niobium, iridium,
And strontium and silicon and silver and samarium,
And bismuth, bromine, lithium, beryllium, and barium.
There's holmium and helium and hafnium and erbium,
And phosphorus and francium and fluorine and terbium,
And manganese and mercury, molybdenum, magnesium,
Dysprosium and scandium and cerium and cesium.
And lead, praseodymium, and platinum, plutonium,
Palladium, promethium, potassium, polonium,
And tantalum, technetium, titanium, tellurium,
<gasp>
And cadmium and calcium and chromium and curium.
There's sulfur, californium, and fermium, berkelium,
And also mendelevium, einsteinium, nobelium,
And argon, krypton, neon, radon, xenon, zinc, and rhodium,
And chlorine, carbon, cobalt, copper, tungsten, tin, and sodium.
These are the only ones of which the news has come to Ha'vard,
And there may be many others, but they haven't been discavard.
Texti sem segir allt það sem þarf að segja um ástina, eftir Dag Sigurðarson:
Eitt sinn var ég skotinn í stelpu.
Hún var vitlaus
en ég var asni.
Hendur stórar, heitir lófar
Helvíti býr í brjósti mér
Það sem þú gerðir gref ég aldrei
Gleyma skal ég aldrei þér
Þulu sína söng mín móðir
Lærðu að vera þæg og góð
Góðar stelpur fara til himna
syngja með englum öll sín ljóð
Góðar stelpur fara til himna
Hinar - Hvert fara þær?
Niður, niður beint í logann
með sínn hala, hófa og klær
Ég mun bíða og blessa dauðann
Brátt er á enda þitt auma stríð
Ég mun hrækja á þína kistu
Bölvaður vertu alla tíð
Yfir þinni gröf skal standa
Grafinn skaltu vina snauður
Hreyfi mig ekki fyrr en ég veit
Þú sért örugglega dauður
Kannast einhver við þennan?
Bubbi Morthens - Góðar stelpur fara til himna.
Önnur mannlýsing:
You were just a waste of sperm
They way you look
Makes my stomach turn
The way you think
Is no way at all
God you really think you have balls
I hate you Ain't it true
I hate you And everything you do
You walk around like a f**king dick
And everytime you're near
You know I get real sick
You're so stupid
There's nothing in your head
God how I wish that you were dead
I hate you
Ain't it true
I hate you
And everything you do
Greinilega ákaflega geðugur einstaklingur þar á ferð.
Já Rattati, þessi er örugglega saminn um Bush!
Síðan smá útúrdúr, en mér finnst ósköp gaman að sjá hvaðan Bubbi hefur fengið innblásturinn:
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
Ég mun bíða og blessa dauðann
Brátt er á enda þitt auma stríð
Ég mun hrækja á þína kistu
Bölvaður vertu alla tíð
Yfir þinni gröf skal standa
Grafinn skaltu vina snauður
Hreyfi mig ekki fyrr en ég veit
Þú sért örugglega dauður
Annar útidúr, smá samanburður á North Country Blues og Aldrei fór ég suður, sama þema allavega:
Come gather 'round friends
And I'll tell you a tale
Of when the red iron pits ran plenty.
But the cardboard filled windows
And old men on the benches
Tell you now that the whole town is empty.
In the north end of town,
My own children are grown
But I was raised on the other.
In the wee hours of youth,
My mother took sick
And I was brought up by my brother.
The iron ore poured
As the years passed the door,
The drag lines an' the shovels they was a-humming.
'Til one day my brother
Failed to come home
The same as my father before him.
Well a long winter's wait,
From the window I watched.
My friends they couldn't have been kinder.
And my schooling was cut
As I quit in the spring
To marry John Thomas, a miner.
Oh the years passed again
And the givin' was good,
With the lunch bucket filled every season.
What with three babies born,
The work was cut down
To a half a day's shift with no reason.
Then the shaft was soon shut
And more work was cut,
And the fire in the air, it felt frozen.
'Til a man come to speak
And he said in one week
That number eleven was closin'.
They complained in the East,
They are paying too high.
They say that your ore ain't worth digging.
That it's much cheaper down
In the South American towns
Where the miners work almost for nothing.
So the mining gates locked
And the red iron rotted
And the room smelled heavy from drinking.
Where the sad, silent song
Made the hour twice as long
As I waited for the sun to go sinking.
I lived by the window
As he talked to himself,
This silence of tongues it was building.
Then one morning's wake,
The bed it was bare,
And I's left alone with three children.
The summer is gone,
The ground's turning cold,
The stores one by one they're a-foldin'.
My children will go
As soon as they grow.
Well, there ain't nothing here now to hold them.
Ég vakna oftast þreyttur, varla með sjálfum mér,
en ég veit það er til annað líf en það sem ég lifi hér.
Og þrá mín hún vakir, meðan þokan byrgir mér sýn.
Mig þyrstir í eitthvað annað en gúanó, tékka og vín.
Á fiskinum lifir þorpið, þorskurinn er fólkinu allt.
Það þrælar alla vikuna, vaðandi slor og salt.
Við færibandið standa menn en þeir finna þar enga ró.
Flestir þeir ungu komnir suður þar sem að draumunum er nóg.
Langa dimma vetur vindurinn smaug í gegn um allt.
Kannski var öllum öðrum hlýtt en mér var allavegana kalt.
Þar biðu allir eftir sumrinu en biðin var löng og ströng.
Bátarnir lágu tómir við kajan í kinnungunum söng.
Faðir minn átti drauma sem dóu fyrir lítið fé.
Mig dreymdi um að verða að manni en ég náði honum aðeins í hné.
Ég gleymi seint þeim augum, gínandi botnlaust tóm.
Gamall maður fyrir aldur fram með brostinn hrjúfan róm.
Þegar ég var rétt orðinn sautján, um sumarið barst mér frétt,
að sæta dúkkan hans Bensa í Gröf væri orðinn kasólétt.
Næturnar urðu langar, nagandi óttinn með.
Negldur ég gat ekki tekið til baka það sem hafði skeð.
Aldrei fór ég suður, alltaf skorti mig þor.
Hvert einasta sumar var því frestað svo kom haust og svo vetur og vor.
Nú er ég kominn á planið og ég pæli ekki neitt.
Ég pækla mínar tunnur fyrir það ég fæ víst greitt.
Ég hugsa oft um börnin mín bráðum kemur að því
að þau bíða ekki lengur, þau fara, hér er ekkert sem heldur í.
Enn koma tómir bátarnir og bræðslan stendur auð.
Baráttan er vonlaus þegar miðin eru dauð.
Já Rattati, þessi er örugglega saminn um Bush!
Síðan smá útúrdúr, en mér finnst ósköp gaman að sjá hvaðan Bubbi hefur fengið innblásturinn:
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
Ég mun bíða og blessa dauðann
Brátt er á enda þitt auma stríð
Ég mun hrækja á þína kistu
Bölvaður vertu alla tíð
Yfir þinni gröf skal standa
Grafinn skaltu vina snauður
Hreyfi mig ekki fyrr en ég veit
Þú sért örugglega dauður
Sérdeilis dularfullt. Annars minnir mig endilega að Bólu Hjálmar hafi ritað kvæði í svipuðum dúr. Dylan er eflaust að herma eftir honum.