歌曲 | Thanksgiving Day Parade |
歌手 | Dan Bern |
专辑 | New American Language |
作曲 : Bern ... | |
Everybody was ecstatic | |
'Bout the light show on the farm | |
And everyone got crazy | |
And nobody got harmed | |
And the five televisions | |
Huge upon the stage | |
Had come to pay their union dues | |
And make a living wage | |
And the bathroom was the clubhouse | |
Where the colors all got made | |
And plans were cast in feathers | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And the DJ spins his records | |
From here out to the sun | |
And he flings them through a big hole | |
In the ozone one by one | |
And somewhere beyond Mercury | |
The wax begins to melt | |
And we touched a perfect stranger | |
And we loved the way it felt | |
And we all hung together | |
In our crew cuts and our braids | |
Floating down Broadway | |
Above the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And you and I were discussing Natalie | |
While you poised to thrust above her | |
And I told you how I admire her | |
And will always need to love her | |
And I told you how I lost | |
My best friend Mr. Neill | |
And we slowly started dancing | |
And began slowly to heal | |
And then we all held hands | |
And no one was afraid | |
On our way to sell our sculptures | |
At the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And Michelangelo finally came down | |
After four years on the ceiling | |
He said he'd lost his funding | |
And the paint had started peeling | |
And he told us that his patron | |
His Holiness, the Pope | |
Was demanding productivity | |
With which our friend just couldn't cope | |
And he rode off on his skateboard | |
With his brushes and his blade | |
Muttering something 'bout some food | |
And the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And we who were born in one millennium | |
And will die in the next | |
Are slightly underappreciated | |
And slightly oversexed | |
And as the seconds and the minutes | |
Start to vanish one by one | |
I'm watching more cartoons | |
As I get my toenails done | |
And we went downtown to deliver | |
Turkeys to people with AIDS | |
And then we headed uptown | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And the music keeps on grinding | |
And the electrophonic crunch | |
And my father's hair is thinning | |
And my mom ate some for lunch | |
And you, you were my babysitter | |
And you let me break my tooth | |
And we sit here tied together | |
In a bar in the back booth | |
And the band is in an uproar | |
Only the drum machine's been paid | |
And we'll have to bring our own tunes | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
Australians are the coolest | |
People in the world | |
Let's all go down under | |
With strings of colored pearls | |
And lay them at the feet | |
Of the heirs of English crime | |
And listen to old Men At Work | |
And have a real good time | |
And we dug until we hit the rocks | |
Then we threw away the spade | |
And built a platform to get a better view | |
Of the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And I love whoever's next to me | |
I love them so, so much | |
They let me lean against them | |
Like a beautiful crutch | |
And everyone should come up | |
On the stage and grab the mike | |
And tell us one by one | |
Who they are and what they like | |
And the babies are the only ones | |
To have lately gotten laid | |
And I'm feeling young and eager | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And you explained to me that without your fans | |
You'd be back out on the street | |
With nothing but chitlins on your plate | |
And splinters in your feet | |
And if you die, you're gone you said | |
And your friends are left behind | |
And you'll be a statistic | |
And we'll be deaf and blind | |
And darkness is a virtue | |
And molasses is not afraid | |
To slow down the countdown | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And somewhere in the distance | |
An orchestra shows its face | |
With Natalie on the oboe | |
Ty on double bass | |
John plays the viola | |
Slik the tenor sax | |
James he blows harmonica | |
In vanilla skin-tight slacks | |
Hugo oozes alto sax | |
Ivory the trombone | |
Masuda squawks the trumpet | |
Andre xylophone | |
Ron he shreds the violin | |
In a green Italian suit | |
Mike talks on the telephone | |
On a tape with an endless loop | |
Geoff he blows the clarinet | |
With an old-time rockin' feel | |
Charlie dings the triangle | |
Dave the glockenspiel | |
Chris puffs on the tuba | |
H a big bass drum | |
Alfonso throbs the cello | |
Like he would a woman, with his thumb | |
And high up on the podium | |
In tails with his baton poised | |
Banksy leads the orchestra | |
In a glorious, awful noise | |
And on a float of dripping oil paint | |
The orchestra, it played | |
Kissing the whole universe | |
In the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And life is like a fairy tale | |
Every step feels like a dream | |
That keeps on getting nearer | |
And more and more extreme | |
And we just got switched with Venus | |
And we're closer to the sun | |
And I got no problem with it | |
Nor should anyone | |
And the cops just blew on in here | |
And we're in some kind of raid | |
I just hope they will release us | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade |
zuò qǔ : Bern ... | |
Everybody was ecstatic | |
' Bout the light show on the farm | |
And everyone got crazy | |
And nobody got harmed | |
And the five televisions | |
Huge upon the stage | |
Had come to pay their union dues | |
And make a living wage | |
And the bathroom was the clubhouse | |
Where the colors all got made | |
And plans were cast in feathers | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And the DJ spins his records | |
From here out to the sun | |
And he flings them through a big hole | |
In the ozone one by one | |
And somewhere beyond Mercury | |
The wax begins to melt | |
And we touched a perfect stranger | |
And we loved the way it felt | |
And we all hung together | |
In our crew cuts and our braids | |
Floating down Broadway | |
Above the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And you and I were discussing Natalie | |
While you poised to thrust above her | |
And I told you how I admire her | |
And will always need to love her | |
And I told you how I lost | |
My best friend Mr. Neill | |
And we slowly started dancing | |
And began slowly to heal | |
And then we all held hands | |
And no one was afraid | |
On our way to sell our sculptures | |
At the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And Michelangelo finally came down | |
After four years on the ceiling | |
He said he' d lost his funding | |
And the paint had started peeling | |
And he told us that his patron | |
His Holiness, the Pope | |
Was demanding productivity | |
With which our friend just couldn' t cope | |
And he rode off on his skateboard | |
With his brushes and his blade | |
Muttering something ' bout some food | |
And the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And we who were born in one millennium | |
And will die in the next | |
Are slightly underappreciated | |
And slightly oversexed | |
And as the seconds and the minutes | |
Start to vanish one by one | |
I' m watching more cartoons | |
As I get my toenails done | |
And we went downtown to deliver | |
Turkeys to people with AIDS | |
And then we headed uptown | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And the music keeps on grinding | |
And the electrophonic crunch | |
And my father' s hair is thinning | |
And my mom ate some for lunch | |
And you, you were my babysitter | |
And you let me break my tooth | |
And we sit here tied together | |
In a bar in the back booth | |
And the band is in an uproar | |
Only the drum machine' s been paid | |
And we' ll have to bring our own tunes | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
Australians are the coolest | |
People in the world | |
Let' s all go down under | |
With strings of colored pearls | |
And lay them at the feet | |
Of the heirs of English crime | |
And listen to old Men At Work | |
And have a real good time | |
And we dug until we hit the rocks | |
Then we threw away the spade | |
And built a platform to get a better view | |
Of the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And I love whoever' s next to me | |
I love them so, so much | |
They let me lean against them | |
Like a beautiful crutch | |
And everyone should come up | |
On the stage and grab the mike | |
And tell us one by one | |
Who they are and what they like | |
And the babies are the only ones | |
To have lately gotten laid | |
And I' m feeling young and eager | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And you explained to me that without your fans | |
You' d be back out on the street | |
With nothing but chitlins on your plate | |
And splinters in your feet | |
And if you die, you' re gone you said | |
And your friends are left behind | |
And you' ll be a statistic | |
And we' ll be deaf and blind | |
And darkness is a virtue | |
And molasses is not afraid | |
To slow down the countdown | |
To the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And somewhere in the distance | |
An orchestra shows its face | |
With Natalie on the oboe | |
Ty on double bass | |
John plays the viola | |
Slik the tenor sax | |
James he blows harmonica | |
In vanilla skintight slacks | |
Hugo oozes alto sax | |
Ivory the trombone | |
Masuda squawks the trumpet | |
Andre xylophone | |
Ron he shreds the violin | |
In a green Italian suit | |
Mike talks on the telephone | |
On a tape with an endless loop | |
Geoff he blows the clarinet | |
With an oldtime rockin' feel | |
Charlie dings the triangle | |
Dave the glockenspiel | |
Chris puffs on the tuba | |
H a big bass drum | |
Alfonso throbs the cello | |
Like he would a woman, with his thumb | |
And high up on the podium | |
In tails with his baton poised | |
Banksy leads the orchestra | |
In a glorious, awful noise | |
And on a float of dripping oil paint | |
The orchestra, it played | |
Kissing the whole universe | |
In the Thanksgiving Day Parade | |
And life is like a fairy tale | |
Every step feels like a dream | |
That keeps on getting nearer | |
And more and more extreme | |
And we just got switched with Venus | |
And we' re closer to the sun | |
And I got no problem with it | |
Nor should anyone | |
And the cops just blew on in here | |
And we' re in some kind of raid | |
I just hope they will release us | |
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade |