| 歌曲 | Something About Ysabel's Dance |
| 歌手 | Peter Hammill |
| 专辑 | Room Temperature |
| 作词 : Hammill | |
| In the new hotel, on Fiesta Night, the staff are bored; | |
| Donna Ysabel dances zombie-like, the guests applaud... | |
| The color is local, the tourists are tanned, | |
| the natives are restless and everything's second-hand. | |
| Places disappear, but the names endure as alibis; | |
| memory's hazy here, no-one's really sure of how time flies... | |
| Well drunk, the bass player cries into his beer – | |
| are Ysabel's mother or Ysabel dancing here? | |
| After hours all the couriers are in the bar | |
| round the corner with the drivers in a game of cards... | |
| In bursts Ysabel, her hair let loose, her limbs set free; | |
| on the tabletops she's dancing to a memory – | |
| conversation stops and every eye is turned to see... | |
| something about Ysabel's dance. | |
| It's a shrinking world, it's a fun-packed cruise, a museum trip: | |
| skirt the native girl, check the rabid dog, rejoin the ship. | |
| There's no Charlie Mingus, his Tijuana's gone... | |
| this smile for the camera is all just a tourist con. | |
| But after hours all the couriers and drivers know | |
| of a cantina where there's every chance that she might show; | |
| and maybe Ysabel will dance the dance for real again, | |
| her mother's footsteps, vice and virtue, lust and love and pain. | |
| There's something here the anthropologist dare not explain, | |
| something about Ysabel's dance... |
| zuò cí : Hammill | |
| In the new hotel, on Fiesta Night, the staff are bored | |
| Donna Ysabel dances zombielike, the guests applaud... | |
| The color is local, the tourists are tanned, | |
| the natives are restless and everything' s secondhand. | |
| Places disappear, but the names endure as alibis | |
| memory' s hazy here, noone' s really sure of how time flies... | |
| Well drunk, the bass player cries into his beer | |
| are Ysabel' s mother or Ysabel dancing here? | |
| After hours all the couriers are in the bar | |
| round the corner with the drivers in a game of cards... | |
| In bursts Ysabel, her hair let loose, her limbs set free | |
| on the tabletops she' s dancing to a memory | |
| conversation stops and every eye is turned to see... | |
| something about Ysabel' s dance. | |
| It' s a shrinking world, it' s a funpacked cruise, a museum trip: | |
| skirt the native girl, check the rabid dog, rejoin the ship. | |
| There' s no Charlie Mingus, his Tijuana' s gone... | |
| this smile for the camera is all just a tourist con. | |
| But after hours all the couriers and drivers know | |
| of a cantina where there' s every chance that she might show | |
| and maybe Ysabel will dance the dance for real again, | |
| her mother' s footsteps, vice and virtue, lust and love and pain. | |
| There' s something here the anthropologist dare not explain, | |
| something about Ysabel' s dance... |