Ian Anderson все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

A raft of penguins on a frozen sea.
Expectant faces look down on me.
Shuffle uneasy. The whistler plays.
Counting eleven, they begin to pray.
Tenuous but clinging, the missing link
Joins us, closer than we might think.
Some half remembered coarse jungle drum –
A naked heart-beat, trill and hum.

My hand of thumbs is shaking
I am so glad to meet you
All tongue-tied and twisted
My lips stuck like glue
More than a lifetime to say, “How are you?”
More than an ocean to cross becalmed.
Less than a second to sink in silence.
Yours truly, I remain disarmed.

Last lights wink out on this pale and sultry night.
Stars signal long past two AM.
I feel the lateness in the hour
and I'm fifty long years from home.

A new dawn glimmers. Time for a change of horses.
It's time to chart new courses
and head for safer houses.

He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town.
Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea.
Thinking back to the child that he once was.
All bread and butter and jam for his tea.

Men came and went in his moments of madness.
Muttered apologies, late for a meeting.
Too much intensity too much feigned sadness.

Education, micro-managed.
MBA: a doddle mastered.
City-bound, Canary Wharf.
A cushy number, fluky bastard.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins

Hedge funds, wraps and equities.
Lackeys, aides in fierce attendance.

I don't mean to be a misery but
I have to tell you straight
there are zombies in the closet and
they're not prepared to wait.
We are the tribe that eats itself and
spits out not a morsel thing.
And navigates this desert by
our cold dead reckoning.

Gerald Bostock, fresh from school with few O-levels, sets his sights.
No grand, fanciful fantasies but level headed middle ground.
The retail trade, the corner shop, at humble service of plain town-folk.
Open at nine and closed by six: enough to work, play, work around.
Regulars drop by to chat in idle gossip, repetition.
Same old words, another day while, all the time, life slips away.
But slips so slowly, stretches moments into hours and hours to years.
With characters by Harold Pinter, dark silences, slow Passion Play.

Take me on the ghost train
20p and there you are
Scary in the tunnel night
White knuckle fingers on the safety bar
Which way to blue skies?
Phantoms pop from cupboard doors
Mocking, manic laughter shrieks
Dark promises of blood and gore

Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark.
Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark.
The temperature is rising. The village gets no sleep.
It's hardly surprising, given the hot company they keep.

Somebody's home in the ash-fall margins;
Somebody's life in the lost and found.
Breaking news from the hotel Vue Pointe.

My old black cat passed away this morning
He never knew what a hard day was.
Woke up late and danced on tin roofs.
If questioned "Why?" answered, "Just because."

He never spoke much, preferring silence:
Eight lost lives was all he had.
Occasionally sneaked some Sunday dinner.

I'm thinking free - like the bird
flying over, over the animals in the zoo.
How do you do?
What's it like to be in there?
Think about it.

You're locked behind wires.
Safe and warm - under house arrest protection

My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
pale hand gripping my pen.
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
letting nine become ten.
Two pink doves strut the shingles
picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
for you dear. And I wish you were here
on this postcard day.

Touch down after muddy rugby in the softer evensong.
Steal through open doors to heaven in angelic sing-along.
Tinsel echoes in the rafters still the air in stained glass light.
Our voices chaste, un-broken, pure, take manly message to the fight.

I sense the power. And I sense the spirit move
in stately corridors of oak and stone, vaulted above.
Beyond the nave, beside dark transepts, candles flicker in the quire.

from "The Secret Language of Birds" (p)2000

Dear uncle, sold her into
Into the purest kind of slavery
Hood-eyed little middlemen profited
From damaged goods along the way

Good angels brought her back

Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting
On the edge of the yard' sand flies flitting
Orange order on a field of green
Smothers me to smithereens

Rum and cola, ice cubes crashing
Jumping beans and brown eyes flashing
Long hair swinging, tell me how d'you feel?

Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.

I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.
It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----

No buzz words, fuzzy fudge words,
so freeze those goalposts, don't take the Admiral on board.
This Hardy's not for kissing…
Expression, no explosion,
or whispered promises in cliché or in rhyme.
Instead let's talk the secret language of birds.
Right time but the wrong idea.
Well, you're making it all sound just the same.

Where did it come from, where's it going?
Upper sixth loan shark, numbers flowing
from the pen that never forgets,
recording ledgers, each-way safe bets.

Fauntleroys and first form fags, allowances all overspent.
Pater's guilty generosity safely deposited against rainy day.