Інформація про пісню На цій сторінці ви можете ознайомитися з текстом пісні The Ballad of the Hulk, виконавця - Jerry Jeff Walker.
Дата випуску: 21.03.2005
Мова пісні: Англійська
The Ballad of the Hulk |
The cycle of life is here |
To see in all of its fine simplicity |
But the way we live it seems to be |
Something very weird to me |
And I cry out |
For pettiness like lady’s chatter |
Seems to complicate the matter |
I grit my teeth as my senses chatter |
For nothing gets me much madder |
As I leap out |
For big or little, great or small |
It really doesn’t matter at all |
The way we shuffle our feet and hem and haw |
'Cause everybody’s afraid they’ll fall |
Or else be left out |
But what’s right for me or strange to you |
Shouldn’t make a damn on what you do |
'Cause whether or not you make it through |
I thought that you already knew |
That I’ll keep you going |
And the World War III and the World Series |
Will make the same size headlines in the news |
From all I’ve seen of politics |
It’s just a greasy big money stick |
That’s geared to run on tongues |
So slick to make you think this is all there is |
Boy you’re lucky (You're stuck with Humphrey) |
How they con the little middle man |
Into thinkin' he has got a hand |
To play in the future of the Promised Land |
He owes himself to the destiny of man |
Gets ridiculous |
A cheap gangster hires someone |
To do his dirty work with a tommy gun |
While the President just points at anyone |
And says «I, your country needs some killing done |
Go do it now boy» |
The war itself is bad enough |
It can break you down no matter how tough |
But the tragedy of all the hoopla stuff |
It makes you think you can’t do enough |
For the shiny symbols |
And the other countries feel the same as we |
And regret that I have but one country to give for my life |
The preacher stands in his holy shroud sayin' |
«God forgives you if you do it now» |
But if you come back when the chips are down |
You’ll find they’ve all gone underground |
To pray for you |
A homosexual, disturbed priest feels that he can preach to me |
The right way to go and raise a family |
And I’m forced to look at him and say «you mean |
You’re guessin» |
The population is getting higher |
The poverty poor, the pregnant tired |
Are waiting on the Pope to be inspired |
For some new contraceptive attire |
Saying «It's cool now» |
It’s a ghost behind a one-way mirror |
Listening tip-toed at the door to hear |
If someone outside won’t speak the year |
Then they’ll slip a note out how they feel |
About pierced ear-lobes |
But the rules made now |
For the changing cows |
Are a little late |
And will be out of date by tomorrow |
Her mother placed on virginity |
Saying it was the holy place to be |
For the things boys had were evilry |
When it came time for matrimony |
She froze and died there |
Her sister at fourteen very well known thought all the kicks came lying there |
prone |
But a fundamental fact not spoken at home left her feeling like a chewed on bone |
And why she wondered |
One chick who dug moving about, very liberal minded and often spoke out |
How she was cool and understood no doubt with the blankets up and the lights |
turned out |
And you’re condescending |
A couple together for five or six years |
A marriage license they’d never been near |
But social pressure and loss of job fear |
Got them married and divorced in half a year |
They couldn’t cut it |
It’s all talked about |
But still it’s lived around |
And what is right for me |
Could be perversity in any state law book |
I’m told a minstrel at one time w |
As allowed to sing and make his rhymes |
To comment on the news of the times |
And say directly what’s in people’s minds |
And he made tips for it |
But today try playing on some street curb |
Singin' the news in everyday words |
The people pass by, the laughin' is heard |
Or else they hit you where it hurts |
They keep their ears closed |
One man said «Boy, I dig your stuff |
I want you to come play in my club |
I’ll put your name in lights up above |
But just remember I got a club to run |
So don’t be too strong» |
It ain’t your writers who sell out |
It’s the damn censors who turn about |
My life learned adjectives and vowels |
And say that my mouth is much too foul |
To clearly speak to you |
But try to hit a nail and if the hammer fails |
Then the words you use to describe |
That bruise is basic language |
I hoboed around and sang the songs |
That everybody knew and hummed along |
To amuse myself I wrote some songs, talkin' |
About things that could be right or wrong |
And I’m a little different |
A record company you know well wanted to know if my song would sell |
I said, «Yes, I like it very well |
If you don’t sir, you can go to help» |
Somebody else change |
So I kept playin' and bummin' around, singin' |
To the ones who dug my sound |
Some guys ask «Won't you play my town» |
I ask fair bread they put me down |
Their Caddie’s mortgaged |
Tried one deal, like «it's you and me» |
This guy said he could be of some use to me |
But when I found he’s puttin' screws to me |
I tipped my hat and made it back to the street |
Singin' new folk songs |
If there’s time enough |
The hill ain’t too rough |
What I wrote today |
I might someday play |
And make tips for it |