Magyar és angol dalszövegek, lyrics

A keresés eredménye

Találatok száma: 2


Los Vatos

Back in the early fifties el Chonito and I were on the
Way to the bote when we heard the following dialogue:

Police car radio:Pachuco rumble in progress in front of Lyceum
Theatre. Sanger gang crossing tracks heading for
Chinatown. Looks big this time. All available
Westside units . . .

Cop to partner driving car:
Take your time. Let ’em wipe each other out.

That attitude was typical then. Has it changed?
Below I sing of an unfortunate act of that epoch.
They came to get him at three o’clock
On a Sunday afternoon that summer of ’48.
Five of them and a guitar in a blue ’37 Chevey.
(The vatos always carried guitars and drove around
In low chevies with bad metallic paint jobs.)
Two got down soothing long sleek hair,
Hidden eyes squinting behind green tinted tea-timers.
In cat-like motions, bored and casual, they sauntered
Then settled heavily on the car.
The one Chava whistled the familiar whistle
Which now sounded alien. The other drew a handkerchief,
Squatted slowly and wiped his thick-soled shoes —
Twin mirrors of despair, reflecting a wine bottle
Making the rounds in gurgling sounds inside the car.
Benny watched them from the window of the tiny bedroom.
His little sister of the huge,slanting eyes — eyes that
Surely witnessed in another time, in another land now
Foreign, Moctezuma slain — played on the bed

Sunstruck While Chopping Cotton

It was at first a single image.
A mirage-like illusional dance
Wavering and decomposing in the
Distance like a plastic mosaic.
Then it cleared.
Not one but three Bothisattvas
Suspended in a cloud of yellow dust
Just above the rows of cotton
Galloping comically on skeletal mounts
Across the arid, sponge-like lust
Of a desiccated desert.
They ride by, shouting in ruthless unison
The name of Jesus, across the valley
Halting not for an instant in their trek
To the distant sea.
The cool sea.
With flame throwers for nostrils
Their horses flee
Abreast the three
Halting whole freeways of awe-stricken traffic
And scattering chattering choppers
Welcoming the enormous episode as an excuse
For frolic and fanfare.
They enter the sea and immediately get
Cut down by surf boards sharp as razors
And oil-well derricks entangle them
And the horses, not being divine, drown.
And the Bothisattvas, mountless in the mire
Choke and struggle, making the Long Beach
Waters thick with blood, mud and crude oil.
But they are determined, and they walk
Nimbly and bloodied on the cracked-mirror
Surface with all the humility of the East
Then they forget and break into a run
Leaving bloodied footprints upon the blue waters,
Running, running, toward the setting sun.
Shouting, Jesus saves!
In ruthless unison.