What is Wet Willie's most successful song

Homo Erraticus Lyrics

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Here are the lyrics for Ian Anderson’s new studio album ‘Homo Erraticus’ in English, German and Italian. The album is available to buy in a variety of formats from Jethro Tull’s Store on Burning Shed.

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English

Gerald Bostock, having left his temporary sabbatical job as tour manager for Ian Anderson’s rock concert tours, returns to semi-retirement in the village of St Cleve in England’s West Country.

Relaxing at home again with his wife (The Old Bag) he contemplates a future removed from from politics as an author. And perhaps, after some forty-two years, once again as a songwriter - having discovered a possible new career direction while on tour with IA.

After Christmas, he considers his plans for for the New Year. While leafing through old books in Matthew Bunter's Old Library Bookshop in the nearby village of Linwell, he comes across a dusty, unpublished manuscript, written by local amateur historian Ernest T. Parritt, (1873 -1928), and entitled “Homo Britanicus Erraticus” .

This illustrated document summarizes key historical elements of developing civilization in Britain and seems to prophesy future scenarios too. Two years before his death, Parritt had a traumatic fall from his horse while out hunting with the Vale Of Clutterbury Hounds and awoke with the overwhelming conviction of having enjoyed past lives as historical characters: a pre-history nomadic mesolithic hunter-gatherer, an Iron Age blacksmith, a Saxon invader, a Christian monk, a Seventeenth Century grammar school boy, turnpike innkeeper, one of Brunel's railroad engineers, and even Prince Albert, husband of Queen Victoria. This befuddled, delusional obsession extends to his prophecy of future events and his fantasy imaginings of ages yet to come….

Note: Parritt died in a sanitorium in Switzerland, aged 55, having just completed his meandering tome. The Parritt family collectively decided to preserve his dignity by not publishing the manuscript and it lay forgotten until purloined from the attic of the family home, Cruddock Hall, by a disgruntled housekeeper.

Having spectacularly failed to gain an ordinary level pass in History at school, Bostock decides to take inspiration from Parritt’s potted series of historical events and utilizes elements from the manuscript as the basis for rock song lyrics. Suitably dramatised and exaggerated as metaphors for modern life, Bostock embarks on the crafting of a re-titled prog-folk-metal concept album, “Homo Erraticus,” the demo of which he sends to IA and his chums in hope of a recording to be made and a tour to follow….

 

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Our footsteps or the Doggerland, chased retreating ice and snow,
left us breathing high and dry, Land’s End to Scapa Flow.
The seeds of Albion, wind-blown free, scattered to the moors,
dormant beneath the the soggy heath where stouter oaks will grow.

(Chorus) All across the Doggerland.
All across before the tides.
Across with boar and elk and wolves.
Take the high lands near and wide.

Strike with rock and flint and bone, follow trail and hoof.
Onwards to another place, a place to raise a roof.
And these four walls to shelter us upon this blessed plot:
This earth, this realm, this England - island, alone, aloof.

All across the Doggerland.
All across before the tides.
Across with boar and elk and wolves.
Take the high lands near and wide.

Back across the Doggerland, Costa villa overkill.
Warm farmhouses in Tuscany challenge Winter’s will.
We pensionable, geriatric, sun-creased wrinklies long
for this earth, this realm, this England, a burial ground to fill.

All across the Doggerland.
All across before the tides.
Across with luggage, kids and sunscreen.
Melted mortgage, dreams that died.

 

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I am the smith. I feed my melt-pot, fashion carbon steely blades
while coulter and the moldboard stab and break the clod in forest glades.
In sultry peace and blood-raised anger, I hammer out my forging trade.

Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker, Avro, Gloster, Handley Page,
Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser, Springfield, Ruger in a rage.
Holland, Holland, Boss and Purdey, Woodward, Greener: golden age.

Every atom of the arsenal forged in distant dying sun
in unholy Trinity now lends new form to plow and gun.
Harry S. and Oppenheimer, Fermi, Teller, what have you done?
And did they pray that He may guide us in His ways, now battle’s won?

 

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(Spoken) Space. Place. Face. Stop. Block. Stop. Sorry - we're coming in.

Roman legions wend their way through ever-widening roads of Empire.
Long straight tracks to new horizons, gilded in soft-tinted campfire.
(Spoken) Old Corinium Dobunnorum, Durovernum Cantiacorum.
Bold Londinium offers voice in market square and open forum.

Angles, Saxons, Danes and Normans, on the whole, a curve of learning.
Alfie, great in spirit, battle, on Somerset Levels left cakes a-burning.
Willy Conker, work cut out, in Domesday pages, marks our number.
Sheep and pigs amongst the hundreds, fat tithes and taxes to encumber.

(Spoken) Pizza palace, burger kingdom, cocaine cola, nylon stockings,
Playboy, Newsweek, Time and Life, GI Joe, spam fritter shocking.
Cold War sparring, Langley spooking, Grosvenor Square (the London Station).
Elvis hips and Monroe lips, John Birch against United Nations.

Bubblegum and Google-bum, Facebook-frenzied social network.
Apple Mac and iPhone App, Gibson, Fender sonic fretwork.
(Spoken) Star Trek, Baywatch, Friends, Sopranos, West Wing, Madmen, Walking Dead.
Officer Rick will turn the trick and banish zombies - from our heads.

 

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Chant intro: The brash North wind strikes upon the isle of Lindisfarne. I offer searching souls the wisdom of my years. These lessons writ in book of ages holy, past. The agony, the righteous path to steer between the waves, the dark abyss, tied to the mast.

This sponge of pragmatic Constantine, mops them all up and wipes them clean.
It's all OK, it's all official. The Christ child advent here to be seen.
Saturn’s Solstice, Yuletide blotted, blended in cynic innocence.
Meet in Milan and host the party, safe to sit astride the fence.

What is this book? These airy pages? Scribed and scribbled with latitude.
Tallest tales for poor and needy in wide-eyed wonder at faith renewed.
Words of gospel and redemption, absolution if we repent
Emperor’s deathbed, late salvation, baptism in dubious testament.

(Chorus) There's a wild child coming. There's an angry man.
There's a new age dawning here, to an old age plan.

Manic mother, her child gone missing: found in the temple with the elder men.
Gone about His Father’s business. Yeah - but he soon goes missing once again.
Ducked his head with the mad-John prophet. West bank desert doubts and fear.
White magic, healing, exorcism: got twelve good men - now the gang’s all here.

There's a wild child coming. There's an angry man.
There's a new age dawning here, to an old age plan.

Proclamation, divine seed sown. (Did he really say that thing?)
On donkey colt, calm, to the passion, knowing full well what the charge must bring.
The body bread, a farewell supper, bounty silver, a kiss betrayed
It's a long, hard haul, that Via Dolorosa. No last contrition, quite unafraid.

There's a wild child coming. There's an angry man.
There's a new age dawning here, to an old age plan.

 

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Mortarboard, gown, hood and lace come guide me in learning, in ascension
where minds may meet and twitters tweet in modern Latin, in declension.
(Chorus) O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
with one tongue, forever young, let us follow better things.
In saintly word and perfect grammar, to Academia’s lofty space.
The trivium, quadrivium, basic thoughts now to efface.
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
with one tongue, forever young, let us follow better things.

Cruel Bunter-bashing, cane-a-thrashing, lines, detention, soon forgot.
O dark ploy! This Grammar school boy has paid the price and bought the lot.
In the quiet hours of life’s twilight, old school ties and photographs,
I call to mind the sore behind, the tears, the last and longest laughs.

Empty desks and inkwells, darkened chapels, cobweb corridors silent now.
Ghostly purple robes and dusty trencher, what could be holier than thou?
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
with one tongue, forever young, let us follow better things.
Meliora Sequamur: may we follow better things.

 

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Go no farther: access denied down byways, freeways of the past.
The superhighway tollhouse humbly begs your pause, so just hold fast.
A word in ear, free marketeer suggests you ponders, takes your choice.
For right of passage, freight or message, change your horses, raise your voice
in protest at the pretty penny taken for your mortal sins.
But dally now in sweet surrender, drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

Beware the brigand, pistols drawn, who offers life for modest fee
and ends his days like poor John Austin, last man on the Tyburn Tree.
The palest ale, the stoutest porter fortify the heart, the breast.
Weary head on eider pillow, horse blanket over, down to rest.
Though we too steal from honest wage, come lie with us, good kith and kin
and dally now in sweet surrender, drown sorrows at the Turnpike Inn.

 

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All along the new straight track we plow the old fields under.
Seven good feet and a quarter inch, broad rails to steal the thunder.
100 picks in '36 sent navvies to meet their maker
as black box tunnel worms its way past the company undertaker.

(Chorus) Hot, cast in iron, the engineer: God bless Isambard!
Piston-scraping, furnace-busting, (he) plays the winning card.

Rain, Steam, Speed ​​at Maidenhead - Turner’s vision wide.
Over bridges, girders, hot-driven rivets safely guide
Passenger wagons from Paddington to Bristol’s briny blue.
On to break the waves, with a thousand horses, turn the churning screw.

(Chorus) Hard, cast in iron, that engineer: God bless Isambard!
Piston-scraping, furnace-busting, (he) plays the winning card.

But those bonnie lads from way ‘oop North, had to have the final laugh:
the ripe new age was the standard gauge, four foot, eight and a half.
And rolling out across all Europe, across the mad, bad Empire world
came the age of steam and engines roaring, bold brazen Jack unfurled.
Arching palaces at Praed Street, stand lofty and serene;
home to their maker and the two broad miles to sleepy Kensal Green.

 

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I came to woo you at behest of Uncle Leo, did my best
to charm and flatter, sooth, lay thoughts of scheming Saxon Prince to rest.
Just seventeen, you were emboldened, turned away plain Orange boy
and made for me a consort haven in your heart, haven of joy.

Now Empire spills a growing blot across the atlas, leaves its mark.
The hands of men in iron ships stoke their boilers, fan the spark.
Generous in deed and promise, our emissaries make fair trade
and pay with sovereign Queenly coin for goods and worldly fortunes made.

We will win them and contain them, not with aid of Gatling gun:
no hard coercion, whip or stick but ten good shillings to be won.
See, we offer contracts clear in English, plain as it appears
in small print, some trifling matters: not important, never fear.

(Chorus) Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules the headland and the wave.
Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep us from an early grave.
Sweet Victoria, Mother England, gracious queen whom God will save.

We'll leave them gifts of architecture, engineering, laws and more.
The willow bat, the bowler hat of gentlemen who keep the score.
Head-up code of moral conduct, never minions to deceive.
Straight the ball and, best of all, when time is come, we take our leave.

(Chorus) Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules the headland and the wave.
Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep us from an early grave.
My sweet Victoria, your dearest Bertie; two ledger lines above the stave.

 

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After battle, with wounds to lick and beaus and belles all reuniting.
Rationing, austerity: it did us good after the fighting.
Now, time to bid some fund farewells and walk away from empires crumbling.
Post-war baby-boom to fuel with post-Victorian half-dressed fumbling.

I see a screen, gray cathode tube in walnut cabinet, pride of place
in holy family living room. Clipped-tone announcer, powdered face.
Now to mold public opinion, sanctify the good and great.
Lordly over his dominion, brash Television seals our fate.

(Chorus) After these wars, when gentler winds were blowing.
After these wars, when stocking tops were showing.
When the Co-op gave us daily bread and penicillin raised the dead
and combine harvesters kept us fed, after these wars.

We thanked the Yank and thanked the Lord for sparing us from dark invasion.
Now to liberate, rebuild and balance Europe’s new equation.
Spooky spies in from the cold with lies and secrets to be sold
to bigger brothers, bigger bombs, le Carré thrillers to be told.

We take our place amongst those others who would punch above their weight.
Divest ourselves of glowing mantle, mantle of old Britain Great.
Bit part cast in Hollywood, ripe old thespian, tolerated.
World-weary ham upon the stage, evergreen but over-rated.

(Chorus) After these wars, when gentler winds were blowing.
After these wars, when stocking tops were showing.
When the Co-op gave us daily bread and penicillin raised the dead
and combine harvesters kept us fed, after these wars.

 

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New blood, old veins, ringing in the new dawn.
Like it, lump it, old chips with curry on.
Let's get to it! Tempus Fugit. Time to cheat the coroner.
Affordable package tours to the land of Johnny Foreigner.

New blood, old veins, kids can't wait to be gone.
Next door, jealous neighbors peeping through the curtains drawn.
Half-timbered Morris Traveler. Pop the luggage in the back.
On the ferry, getting merry, bending over, builder's crack.

Out there, far beyond Victorian piers and palisades.
Have toss the candy floss. No more ginger beers or lemonades.
Roll on, roll off. Duty free, Dover, Calais.
Wet the lip, a hefty sip. Cheap brandy, jolly Beaujolais.

(Bridge 4/4) Time to visit fresher places, don’t be fearful, we’ll join the clan.
Just be mindful of who’s the master, don’t pinch the sun bed. Understand:
we're going mental, continental, socks and sandals, tapas bar.
Got a phrasebook, bought a timeshare, lessons in Spanish guitar.

Goodbye Blackpool, going where sun is guaranteed.
Drink it down, throw it up. Watneys Red: just what I need.
Knotted hankie worn too late, melanoma’s such a pain.
Not too far from hot Malaga to Luton Airport in the rain.

 

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I've started, so I'll finish. I'm here, so I'll stay.
Dally with a little lady, met along the way.
In for a penny through the turnstile gate.
Searching for the motherlode before it's too late.
Barley grain sprouting, spilled upon the ground.
I'm the mad hatter, getting fatter, in for a pound.
In for a pound.
In for a pound.
In for a pound.

 

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Exponential family planning: let me play the numbers game,
sign up for some benefits, get my dues and stake a claim.
Spill out to suburbia then spread onwards to the country wide
and when the last plot’s taken, I’ll spill out on to the other side.

(Chorus) It's the browning of the green: we'll be tight as canned sardine.
Lemmings to the right and the left of us and all points in between ...
It's the browning of the green.

Be fruitful: nothing to it. Fill the earth, subdue it, multiply.
It's written in that Goodly Book. So, it's really best that I comply.
Another baby-booming bloomer? Imbecile fecundity?
Another mouth, but what the Hell? Child benefits, they come for free.

(Chorus) It's the browning of the green: we'll be tight as canned sardine.
Lemmings to the right and the left of us and all points in between ...
It's the browning of the green.

A little boy, a little girl: quite perfect but it won’t suffice.
Bouncing bairns upon my knee; six or seven might be nice.
Come, time to go with Daddy, find ourselves some open playground space
on these concrete fields of England, this blessed realm, this blessed place.

(Chorus) It's the browning of the green: we'll be tight as canned sardine.
Lemmings to the right and the left of us and all points in between ...
It's the browning of the green.

 

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We thought it over for a century or two. Considered all in light of such short history.
Would you let them loose upon the stars? Bring their dark and murky waters to lap on pristine shores?
Fine in their own place and with their own destiny to follow. But - breeding like rabbits on other worlds and with other calmer spirits?

(Sung) Per Errationes Ad Astra? Then dream, dream on. The dream is all. All good sense gone.

Neil, Buzz, and Michael, they made a team. The right stuff in a can of spam. The brave adventure came to naught, cruel economics had their say. A tiny bubble of pure white light from mighty engines did ignite. They howled and roared on Pad 39A in the night. Orbiters and Soyuz towered on stacks of Lox and hydrogen. But what a little squib, a little firework in the cosmic crash of fiery fusion as far galaxies collide: drowned in the vastness of all we see and, still, can only just imagine.

So, let's not worry about the wandering man. He’ll wander hither if he can. But his time may have already come. And gone.

 

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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.

Does anybody have the charts, coordinates or maps?
A hint of a direction to avoid further mishaps?
A throw of dice, a toss of coin decides what Madame luck might bring
as we navigate this desert by our cold, dead reckoning.

Turmoil, tempest, tall tsunami, haven’t we heard it all before?
Await The Beast to join the feast, this party is an open door.
All are welcome! All are joined in penitence, if it please the King,
while we navigate this desert by our cold, dead reckoning.

We placed our trust in sad self-doubting leaders who have led
us through the dark to slip amongst the ranks and files of walking dead.
Send to us a guiding symbol, shining bird upon the wing,
as we navigate this desert by our cold, dead reckoning.

Now, back across the Doggerland: will higher mighty force redeem
each one who dropped the moral compass, failed to lead, fulfill the dream?
Will testimony tarnish and will sticky reputation cling?
And we navigate this desert by our cold, dead reckoning.

Cheer up, Charlie, brave a smile, lift your chin and walk the walk.
Lake! Angels watching over all; the snake, the dove, the circling hawk.
There must be another Eden, future garden of earthly delight.
Next time, no fruit: in birthday suit, walk naked through the heavenly night
as we navigate this desert by our cold, dead reckoning.

 

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German

 

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We chased across Doggerland, after the disappearing ice and snow,
We sat down panting between Land’s End and the Scapa Stream.
The seeds of Albion, blown free with the wind, scattered over all the moors,
lie asleep in the softened heather, where one day sturdy oaks will grow.

Everywhere in Doggerland.
Anywhere before the tide.
Everywhere in the midst of boars, elk and wolves.
Take possession of the land, from here to the horizon.

Strike with fire, rock and bones, follow the bills of exchange and the hoof prints,
On and on, to new places, a place to cover a roof for you.
And may four of these walls, protect us, in that blessed spot:
This earth, this kingdom, this England - (my) island, loneliness, bliss.

Everywhere in Doggerland.
Anywhere before the tide.
Everywhere in the midst of boars, elk and wolves.
Take possession of the land, from here to the horizon.

Back in Doggerland - luxury settlements and villas, excessive and far too much of a good thing,
Heated country houses in Tuscany, strongholds against winter.
And we decrepit retirees, with sun-tanned, wrinkled faces, long for each other
To this earth, this empire, this England - a cemetery to be filled.

Everywhere in Doggerland.
Anywhere before the tide.
Everywhere amid suitcases, children and sun cream.
Between mortgages that have melted away and dreams that have long since passed away.
Everywhere in Doggerland.
Anywhere before the tide.
Everywhere in the midst of boars, elk and wolves.
Take possession of the land, from here to the horizon.

 

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I am the Schmid. I feed my crucible, make carbon-steel blades.
Plow knives and mouldboard pierce and break clumps of earth in wooded clearings.
In contemplative peace and blind rage, the hammer sounds as a testimony to my craftsmanship.

Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker, Avro, Gloster, Handley Page,
Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser, Springfield, Ruger fighting.
Holland, Holland, Boss and Purdey, Woodward, Greener: those were the days.

Every atom of this arsenal was once found in a distant dying sun in unholy trinity
forged and now gives the plow and the weapon its new shape.
Harry S. and Oppenheimer, Fermi, Teller, what have you just done?
Have you prayed that He would guide you on the right path - would that be done?

 

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Room. Place. Face. Standstill. Lock. Stop. Sorry - we're coming in now.

We, the Roman Legions, set off on the ever-widening roads of our world empire.
Straight to new horizons, shining golden in a delicately tinted firelight.
The old Corinium Dobunnorum (Cirencester), Durovernum Cantiacorum (Canterbury).
The courageous Londinium (London) invites to popular speeches in marketplaces and public forums.

Angling, Saxons, Danes and Normans, they all have a learning curve in common.
Alfie *, great energy, great in battle, (but) in Somerset Levels he let the cake burn.
Willy Conker **, it did quite a bit of work, noted our ownership structure in the Reich land register ***.
Hundreds of sheep and pigs are fat tithe and taxes that are placed on (us).

Pizza Palast, Burger Kingdom, Cocaine Cola, nylon stockings,
Playboy, Newsweek, Time and Life, GI Joe, Spam Fritter **** - oh how shocking.

Cold War Duels, Langley ***** Haunted, Grosvernor Square (London Branch ******),
Elvis ’hips and Monroe's lips, John Birch versus the United Nations.

Chewing gum and Google-Heini, social networkers on Facebook rush,
Apple Mac and iPhone App, Gibson, Fender - (what a) guitar noise.
Star Trek, Baywatch, Friends, Sopranos, West Wing, Madmen, Walking Dead.
Officer Rick knows the trick and drives the zombies out of our heads.

*) Alfred the Great / Alfred the Great
**) William the Conquerer / William the Conqueror
***) Domesday Pages / ~ Book = Lehnsverzeichnis; Reich land register
****) breaded (fat-baked) canned minced meat (ham base)
*****) Langley is the headquarters of the CIA
******) on Grosvenour Square is the US embassy, ​​symbolic of the CIA's branch in England

 

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The impetuous north wind is sweeping across Lindisfarne Island.
I offer searching souls the wisdom of my years.
These teachings are written in the book from sacred times long past.
It is torture to take the right path in the middle of the wave crests,
Past the dark abyss, tied to the mast.

The sponge of the pragmatist (Emperor) Constantine, soaks up everything and cleans sparklingly clean.
Everything is good, everything is official. The arrival of the Christian child is imminent.
Saturn solstice, July time - stained and mingled in cynical innocence.
They meet in Milan and throw a party, as a spectator you are on the safe side.

What kind of book is that? Those windy sides? Written down and scribbled in epic proportions.
Lies for the poor and needy, whose faith is renewed through amazing miracles.
Words of the gospel and redemption, remission of sin if only we repent;
Late salvation on the emperor's deathbed, baptism as a questionable last will.

An untamed child has arrived. There is an angry person.
A new age begins here, following a plan from the old days.

A mother goes crazy, her child has disappeared: found again in the temple among older men.
Out and about on behalf of his father.
Yeah - but soon He'll be gone again.
He dived his head under the mad John (the Baptist), the prophet.
Doubt and fear plagued him in the desert of the West Bank.
White magic, healing and exorcising the devil: twelve good men - the whole troop is here now.

An untamed child has arrived. There is an angry person.
A new age begins here, following a plan from ancient times.

Promise the Divine Seed is planted. (Did He really say that?)
He rides a donkey, calmly, on the way to his own story of suffering.
He knew exactly what the prosecution would bring him. The bread as His body, a last supper, a few pieces of silver and a betrayed kiss. It's a long, arduous journey down this Via Dolorosa.
Until the end, He did not regret anything and was free from fear.

An untamed child has arrived. There is an angry person.
A new age begins here, following a plan from the old days.

 

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Mortar Barrett, robe, hood and lace collar may guide me as I study, on my way to the top,
where thinkers meet and twitterers tweet in modern Latin while declining.
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
With united voices, forever young, let us strive for greater things.

With devout words and perfect grammar, to academic heights.
The trivium, quadrivium, let all simple thoughts evaporate.
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
With united voices, forever young, let us strive for greater things.

Cruel fights, beatings with a cane, detention, detention, soon forgotten.
O gloomy conspiracy! The young high school student paid his price and bought everything from you.
In the quiet hours of the evening, old school ties and photographs in front of me,
I remember the aching bum, the tears, the last and longest of all laughter.

Abandoned school desks and empty ink pots, dark chapels, cobwebs in silent corridors.
Dim, purple robes and dusty doctoral hats, what could be more sacred than you?
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing
With united voices, forever young, let us strive for greater things.
Meliora Sequamur: may we strive for higher things.

 

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You can't go any further here: Passage is prohibited on the secondary and main streets of the past.
The customs station on the super expressway invites you to stop for a break.
Listen to the free market economy, it whispers to you: look around and choose something.
Tickets, freight or messages, change horses, raise your voice
Against the beautiful stake of money that someone wants to take from you for your mortal sins.
Relax, forget your worries, wash them down at the Turnpike Inn.

Beware of muggers who will give you your own life at gunpoint against a small one
Want to sell fee, and who themselves will end up like poor John Austin, the last one they were in
Tie Tyburn to the tree.
The thinnest ale, the strongest porter (types of beer) strengthen the heart and chest.
The tired head on eider down *, rolled up in a horse blanket, it's time to rest.
Even if the honest one is not safe from us, come and lie down with us, at your own.
Relax, forget your worries, wash them down at the Turnpike Inn.

Wash your worries down at the Turnpike Inn.
Wash your worries down at the Turnpike Inn.
Wash your worries down at the Turnpike Inn.
Even if the honest one is not safe from us, come and lie down with us, at your own.
Relax, forget your worries, wash them down at the Turnpike Inn.
Wash your worries down at the Turnpike Inn. Wash your worries down at the Turnpike Inn.

 

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Along the new, straight stretch, we plow under the old fields.
Six feet wide and a quarter of an inch, tracks that will attract attention.
With 100 pickaxes in 1836, tunnel workers set out to meet their creator,
and the black box tunnel * makes its way past the company's own grave digger.

Hard, cast iron, this engineer: God bless Isambard! **
The pistons crunch, the boiler glows, (he) knows how to get on the right horse.

Rain, steam, full throttle at Maidenhead - Turner's vision on screen width ***
Over bridges and steel girders, hot-pressed rivets hold bombproof.
The touring cars from Paddington to Bristol's salty lake (Avon estuary).
From there we continue to break waves, with 1000 horsepower the ship's propeller **** foams the sea.

Hard, cast iron, this engineer: God bless Isambard!
The pistons crunch, the boiler glows, (he) knows how to get on the right horse.

But those handsome fellows from the far north laughed last and best:
The standard gauge was finally four feet and eight and a half.
And while the train rolls through all of Europe, all through the crazy, bad empire
The era of the steam engine and roaring engines began. The Union Jack flutters boldly and boldly.
Arched palaces stand on Praet Street, lofty and serene;
This is the home of its builder and the last two miles to the sleepy Kensal Green *****.

Hard, cast iron, this engineer: God bless Isambard!
The pistons crunch, the boiler glows, (he) knows how to get on the right horse.

*) Box Tunnel - Tunnels in the Bath area;
**) Isambard Kingdom Brunel (1806-1859); Builder of the Great Western Railway Line
**) J.M.W. Turner- Contemporary Painter "Rain, Steam, Speed ​​- The Great Western Railway (1844)"
****) Allusion to Brunel's vision to continue the train connection with ships
*****) The family grave of the Brunel family is located in Kensal Green in north-west London

 

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I came at the behest of Uncle Leo to woo you; I did my best
To ensnare you, to flatter you, to pamper you;
To whisper to you the thoughts of the scheming Prince of Saxony.
At just 17, you were brave enough to reject the boy from Orange.
You let me as a husband into the port of your heart, the port of joy.

The Empire begins to expand noticeably on the Atlas, leaving its mark.
The hands of the men on iron ships heat the boilers, stir up the sparks.
Generous in deeds and promises, our messengers do good business
And pay tribute to the queen for goods and worldly fortunes obtained.

We're going to get a grip on them and keep them in check, not with the Enfield Pattern weapon:
No compulsion, neither whip nor stick - but for ten shillings they are ours.
Look, we offer contracts in clear English, as simple as it seems
The fine print is beside the point, just don't worry.

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, it rules the mainland and the seas.
The Hanseatic League will enrich us and save us an early burial.
Sweet Victoria, Mother England, graceful Queen that God protect.

We leave you gifts - architecture, engineering, laws and much more.
The willow wooden baton (crickett), the gentlemen's bowler hat, note the game and account balance.
Guidelines for moral behavior, no minions playing the wrong cards.
Always play the ball straight, and the best thing is, when the time comes, we take our hats.

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, it rules the mainland and the seas.
The Hanseatic League will enrich us and save us an early burial.
My sweet Victoria, your dearest Albert; sweetly whispering on the 2nd auxiliary line above the staff.

 

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After the fight, licking the wounds, the beautiful and the pretty meet again.
Rationing, thrift: it was good for us after all the fighting.
Time to say goodbye to many a beloved and leave the crumbling empire behind.
Lightweight post-Victorian clothing makes fumbling easier and encourages the post-war baby boom.

I see a screen, a gray tube TV in the walnut cupboard, the pride of the house In the family's sacred living room. A television announcer with a jagged tone and a powdered face. Public opinion is now being made, the good and the great are canonized. It exercises supremacy with self-satisfaction, and television boldly seals our fate.

After those wars when gentler winds blew.
After those wars, when lace underwear came out.
When the co-op gave us our daily bread and the penicillin resurrected the doomed.
And the combines fed us after these wars.

We thanked the Yankee and God for saving us from the dark invasion.
The task now is to liberate, rebuild and bring Europe into a new equilibrium.
Scary spies come out of the cold to sell us lies and secrets
About bigger villains (Big Brother), bigger bombs; le Carré * will report on it in thrillers.

We line up among all the others who would like to have more weight.
We take off the once shining cloak, the cloak of the old, once so Great Britain.
A few minor appearances in Hollywood, by served theater mimes, tolerated.
Always the same old camels, still popular, but completely overrated.

After those wars when gentler winds blew.
After those wars, when lace underwear came out.
When the co-op gave us our daily bread and the penicillin resurrected the doomed.
And the combines fed us after these wars.

*) le Carré, bestselling author of espionage novels

 

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New blood, old veins, they ring in the new time.
One likes it, the other doesn't; they are the same old chips only with curry on them.
Down to business! Tempus Fugit! Don't wait for the death certificate to be issued to us.
Affordable package tours to foreign countries full of foreigners.

New blood, old veins, the kids can't wait to leave.
Next door, envious neighbors peek out from behind drawn curtains.
A half timbered Morris Traveler (car). Throw the luggage in the back.
On the ferry, the mood rises, bend over for a moment and your ass hangs out.

Out there, beyond Victorian piers and palisades.
Throw away the cotton candy. No more ginger beer and lemonades.
Go up (on the ferry), go down. Duty Free Shopping, Dover, Calais.
Wet your lips, take a good swig. Inexpensive brandy, great Beaujolais.

Time to visit a few newer places, don't be afraid, we'll come with you.
But watch out who's the boss; Don't steal anyone's sun lounger. Roger that:
We go crazy, continentally, in socks and sandals, in the tapas bar.
I bought the phrasebook, bought the timeshares, and took lessons in Spanish guitar.

Goodbye Blackpool, we're going where sunshine is guaranteed.
Drinking and throwing up. Watneys Red (type of beer): just what I need now.
The knotted headgear handkerchief was put on too late, skin cancer is annoying and painful.
It's just a hop, skip and jump home from the heat of Malaga into the rain at Luton Airport.

 

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I started it, that's how I'll finish it. I am here, this is how I will stay.
Flirt a little with the little one, we ran into each other.
Hung up, caught up - whoever goes through the turnstile.
In search of happiness before it's too late.
Sprouting barley grains, scattered on the ground.
I'm the crazy hatter *, I'm getting fatter - hung up, caught up.
I'm the crazy hatter, I'm getting fatter - hung up, caught up.
Cling together, swing together.
Cling together, swing together.
Cling together, swing together.

*) Allusion to the mad hatter from Alice in Wonderland

 

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Exponential family planning: let me play with numbers
Submit an application for funding, collect what I'm entitled to and secure my entitlements.
First flood the suburbs, from there it goes to the countryside.
And when the last lot is gone, it goes over to the other side.

Now what was once green is turning brown: we will be cooped up like sardines in a can.
Lemmings to the right and to the left and everywhere in between ...
Now what was once green is turning brown.

Be fruitful: nothing is easier than that. Fill the earth, subdue it, multiply.
So it is written in that good book. It is best to orientate myself exactly according to it.
Another big mistake? Insane fertility?
Another hungry mouth, what the heck? Child benefit is free.

Now what was once green is turning brown: we will be cooped up like sardines in a can.
Lemmings to the right and to the left and everywhere in between ...
Now what was once green is turning brown.

A little boy, a little girl: pretty perfect, but it won't be enough.
Children teetering on my knee; six or seven would be nice.
Come on, come on now with dad, we'll find a free place to play
In these concrete deserts of England, this blessed kingdom, this blessed place.

Now what was once green is turning brown: we will be cooped up like sardines in a can.
Lemmings to the right and left and everywhere in between ...
Now what was once green is turning brown.

 

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We thought about it for a century or two. Have looked at everything in the light of this short (human) history. Can we let them loose on the stars? Let your dark, murky sewage wash up on pristine coasts? It's okay as long as you do it at home and take your fate yourself. But - should they reproduce like rabbits in other worlds and next to other more peaceful beings?

Per Errationes Ad Astra? Then dream, keep dreaming. The dream is everything. Forsaken by all good spirits.

Neil, Buzz and Michael made a good team. Really good stuff, like canned meat.
The daring adventure was over quickly, in the end the cost-benefit calculation was decisive.
A small bubble of pure, white light thundered into the night from powerful engines at launch pad 39A. Space shuttle and Soyuz towered over the rocket stages of liquid oxygen and hydrogen. But what a cute crackling frog, what tiny fireworks - compared to the cosmic and fiery meltdowns of distant galaxies crashing into one another:
It is drowned in the sheer endlessness of everything we see and can only imagine.

Do not worry about the wandering man. He'll come here if he can.
Its time is ripe. And already over again.

 

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I don't want to be a spoilsport, but I'll tell you straight away;
We have bodies in the basement and they won't be long in coming.
We are the tribe that eats itself up and doesn't spit out any more of it.
We steer cold calculating through the wasteland.

Does anyone have plans, coordinates or maps?
A hint of a direction so that more mischief does not happen?
A die that has fallen, a coin tossed decides what Frau Glücksfee brings us,
While we steer calculatingly through the wasteland.

Riot, storms, tsunamis, haven't we heard all of this?
Expect the beast, it will come to the festival because this party is like an open door.
All are welcome! All are gathered together in repentance, if it pleases the king,
While we steer calculatingly through the wasteland.

We trusted in puny, self-doubting leaders,
Who led us through the dark, only to have us in the ranks of the marching
Losing dead. Send us a sign, a fluttering bird

While we steer calculatingly through the wasteland.
Now, back in Doggerland: will a higher power redeem those
Who dropped the compass of morality, who failed to fulfill the dream?
Will our memory be tainted and our reputation tainted?
While we steer calculatingly through the wasteland.

Rejoice Charlie, dare to smile, hold your head up and go your way.
Look! Angels watch over all; the snake, the pigeon, the circling hawk.
There must be a new Eden, a future garden of earthly joys.
The next time, no fruit: naked, as at our birth, we wander through the heavenly
Night while we steer through the wasteland, calculating.

 

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After the former politician Gerald Bostock gave up his odd job as tour manager of the Ian Anderson rock concerts in 2013, he returned to the village of St. Cleve in rural west England, toying with retirement.

While he is relaxing at home with his wife, “the old box”, he is considering trying his hand at writing in the future. Maybe even once more as a lyricist and composer, now that he had rediscovered his talent after more than 45 years during the tour with IA.

It is the time after Christmas that he makes his plans for the New Year. As he rummaged through the old books in the bookstore Matthew Bunter’s Old Library in the neighboring village of Linwell, he came across a dusty, unpublished manuscript, written by the local lay historian Ernest T. Parritt (1865-1928). It has the whimsical title “Homo Erraticus (The St. Cleve’s Chronicles)”. The illustrated document deals with the essential milestones in the development of the civilization of Britain. It also seems to contain prophecies for the future.

Two years before his death, Parritt suffered from recurring malaria that he caught during his military service in India. When he was startled from his feverish dreams, he was firmly convinced that he had already lived as a historical figure in previous lives: as a wandering hunter and gatherer in the Middle Stone Age; as a blacksmith during the Iron Age; as besiegers and occupiers at the time of the Saxon attacks; as a Christian monk; as a schoolboy in the 17th century; as host of the Turnpike Inn; as one of Brunel's railroad engineers; and even as Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's consort. These confused delusions made him see his future life with visionary conviction, but also events or the approach of Judgment Day.

Parritt died at the age of 63 in the Oberwaid Kurhaus Sanatorium in St. Gallen, Switzerland. It was just after he finished writing his unfathomable tome. However, since the Parritt family was very concerned with preserving the dignity of the deceased, they decided not to publish the manuscript. And so it fell into oblivion in the attic of the family mansion Cruddock Hall, until one day it was stolen by a sullen housekeeper.

Even if Gerald Bostock was anything but a lamp in history lessons in his school days, Parritt's descriptions of historical events he had invented fascinate him. Gerald notes that his own father, Arthur, a Scientologist, was born “by accident” exactly one day after Parritt's death.

Bostock takes on these stories with enthusiasm. He dramatizes and exaggerates them a little to make them suitable as metaphors for modern life.Bostock goes to work and writes the lyrics for a prog rock metal concept album. He immediately sends these texts to IA and his buddies, in the silent hope that they will record it and go on tour again ...

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Italian

 

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Le nostre impronte sulle distese di Doggerland, rincorrendo i ghiacci in ritirata,
ci lasciarono in secca, da Land’s End a Scapa Flow
I semi di Albione, sferzati dal vento, si sono dispersi sulle brughiere,
addormentati sotto l’erica fradicia dove un giorno sarebbero variety querce ben più robust

Attraverso Doggerland
dinanzi alle maree
traversando insieme ai cinghiali, le alci e i lupi
occupiamo le terre old in lungo e in largo
Colpiamo con la roccia, i sassi e le ossa, seguiamo le tracce e incamminiamoci
fino a un altro posto, un posto dove erigere un tetto
E queste quattro mura ci proteggeranno in questo luogo benedetto:
questa terra, questo regno, questa Inghilterra - isola, sola, distante.

Attraverso Doggerland
dinanzi alle maree
traversando insieme ai cinghiali, le alci e i lupi
occupiamo le terre old in lungo e in largo

Il ritorno, attraversando Doggerland, a villa mozzafiato sulla costa.
Calde fattorie in Toscana sfidano le volontà dell’inverno
Noi pensionabili, geriatrici, grinzosi strinati dal sole desideriamo
ardentemente questa terra, questo regno, questa Inghilterra, un luogo di sepoltura da riempire

Attraverso Doggerland
dinnanzi alle maree
traversando con i bagagli, i bambini e i parasole
mutui dissipati, sogni ormai morti
Attraverso Doggerland
dinanzi alle maree
traversando insieme ai cinghiali, le alci e i lupi
occupiamo le terre old in lungo e in largo

 

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Io sono il fabbro. Riempio il mio crogiolo, modello lame d'acciaio sul carbone
mentre il vomero e il versoio bucano e Spezzano le zolle nelle radure boschive
Nella quiete appiccicosa e nella rabbia sanguinosa, modello a martellate i miei affari

Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker, Avro, Gloster, Handley Page,
Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser, Springfield, Ruger a raffica.
Holland, Holland, Boss and Purdey, Woodward, Greener: l’età d’oro.

Ogni atomo dell’arsenale forgiato nel sole che tramonta lontano
in una Trinità empia ora dà nuova forma all’aratro e al fucile
Harry S. e Oppenheimer, Fermi, Teller, cosa avete fatto?
E pregarono che Lui ci potesse guidare? Ora: la battaglia è vinta?

 

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(Parlato) Avanti. Identificarsi. Marsh. Alt. Stop. Fermi. Scusate, stiamo arrivando

Le legioni romane si fecero strada lungo le vie semper più grandi dell’Impero
Lunghe tracce third verso nuovi orizzonti dorati negli accampamenti dalle ink sfumate

(Parlato) L’antica Corinium Dobunnorum, Durovernum Cantiacorum.
La coraggiosa Londinium si fa sentire nella piazza del mercato e nel foro.

Angli, Sassoni, Danesi e Normanni, alla lunga una curva di conoscenza
Alfredo, grande nello spirito, combatte, ha fatto bruciare le torte sulla piana del Somerset
Guglielmo il Conquistatore, finito il lavoro, nelle pagine del Domesday, ci conta
pecore e maiali a centinaia, cospicue decime e cup da sbrigare

(Parlato) La casa della pizza, il regno dell’hamburger, coca e cocaina, calze di nylon,
Playboy, Newsweek, Time e Life, GI Joe, schifezze fritte

Una Guerra Fredda da dividere, la spia di Langley, Grosvenor Square (la Stazione di Londra)
Le anche di Elvis, le labbra della Monroe, John Birch contro le Nazioni Unite

Chewing gum e Google ovunque, la frenesia dei social network tipo Facebook
Il Mac della Apple, the App for iPhone, the corrono sulle Gibson and the Fender
(Parlato) Star Trek, Baywatch, Friends, i Sopranos, West Wing, Madmen, Walking Dead.
L’ufficiale Rick con un trucco dei suoi farà sparire gli zombie - dalle nostre teste

 

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Intro: L'impudente vento del Nord sferza l'isola di Lindisfarne.
Offro la saggezza dei miei anni alle anime che la cercano.
Queste lezioni step nei libri sacri, antichi.
L’agonia, il sentiero del bene per reggere il timone tra le onde,
il nero abisso, legato all’albero maestro.

Questa spugna del pragmatico Costantino, li tira su tutti e li ripulisce
E’tutto OK, è tutto ufficiale. L'avvento del Cristo bambino merita di essere visto
Il Solstizio di Saturno, Natale macchiato, mescolato in cinica innocenza
Ci vediamo a Milano e organizziamo le fila, è più sicuro restare alla finestra

Cos’è questo libro? Quest pagine aeree? Vergate e imbrattate in libertà
I migliori racconti per i poveri e i bisognosi con gli occhi spalancati dallo stupore
al rinnovarsi della fede
Parole di vangelo e redenzione, c’è l’assoluzione se ci pentiamoIl
letto di morte dell’Imperatore, salvezza in extremis, battesimo in un testamento di dubbi

(Chorus) C’è un bambin selvaggio in arrivo. C’è un uomo furioso
C’è una nuova era che sta nascendo, contro il disegno dei tempi andati

La madre impazzita, suo figlio perso: lo hanno trovato nel tempio con i saggi
Andato dietro agli affari di Suo Padre. Sì, ma presto sparirà di nuovo
Si è riempito la testa con il profeta pazzo Giovanni. I dubbi e le paure del deserto della Cisgiordania
Magia bianca, cure, esorcismi: dodici uomini giusti, adesso c’è tutto il gruppo

(Chorus) C’è un bambin selvaggio in arrivo. C’è un uomo furioso
C’è una nuova era che sta nascendo, contro il disegno dei tempi andati

Proclamazione, il seme divino piantato. (Ma lo ha detto davvero?)
Su un asinello, calmo, fino alla Passione, sapendo benissimo che cosa avrebbe comportato
Il pane, il corpo, un’ultima cena, trenta denari, tradito da un bacio
E’un lungo calvario quella Via Dolorosa. Nessun pentimento, senza paura

(Chorus) C’è un bambin selvaggio in arrivo. C’è un uomo furioso
C’è una nuova era che sta nascendo, contro il disegno dei tempi andati

 

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Cappello accademico, veste, cappuccio e pizzi vengono a guidarmi nella conoscenza,
nell’ascensione
dove le menti si possono incontrare e i cinguettatori cinguettare in Latino moderno, con le
declinazioni

Oh Signore, oh Maestro - noi angeli ferventi cantiamo
con una lingua sola, per semper giovani, seguiamo il meglio

Con parole sante e perfetta grammatica negli ampi spazi dell’Accademia
trivium, quadrivium, i pensieri più ignobili da respingere

Oh Signore, oh Maestro - noi angeli ferventi cantiamo
con una lingua sola, per semper giovani, seguiamo il meglio

I crudeli colpi del professor Bunter, le frustate con la canna, le file, i castighi, presto dimenticati
Oh oscuro complotto! Questo allievo del liceo ha pagato lo scotto e si è preso tutto
Nelle tranquille ore del crepuscolo della vita, le vecchie cravatte della scuola e le photography,
mi tornano in mente le sofferenze patite, le lacrime, le ultime risate, le migliori

Banchi vuoti e calamai, scure cappelle, corridoi pieni di ragnatele ora silenziosi
Spettrali vesti purpuree e soprabiti impolverati, cosa potrebbe essere più santo di te?
Oh Signore, oh Maestro - noi angeli ferventi cantiamo
con una lingua sola, per semper giovani, seguiamo il meglio
Meliora Sequamor: possiamo noi seguire il meglio

 

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Not andate oltre: è vietato l’accesso per scorciatoie, le vecchie vie libere
Il pedaggio della superstrada vi chiede umilmente di fermarvi, per cui tenetevi saldi
Una parola nell’orecchio, il libero mercante suggerisce voi valutate e fate la vostra scelta
Per il diritto di passaggio, di merci o messaggi, cambiate i cavalli, alzate la voce
per protestare contro il penny pagato per i vostri peccati mortali
Ma andiamo, arrendetevi, affogate i vostri dispiaceri alla taverna della gabella

Fate attenzione ai briganti, pistol sfoderate, che offrono la vita in cambio di una piccola somma
e finiscono i loro giorni come il povero John Austin, l’ultimo a finire sulla forca
La birra più ambrata, la portata più grossa fortificano il cuore e il petto
La testa stanca sul cuscino di piumino, una coperta da cavallo, e giù a dormire
Anche se pure noi rubiamo agli onesti, venite qui, a stendervi, amici e parenti
E andiamo, arrendetevi, affogate i vostri dispiaceri alla taverna della gabella
Affogate i dispiaceri alla taverna della gabella
Affogate i vostri dispiaceri alla taverna della gabella
Affogate i dispiaceri alla taverna della gabella

 

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Lungo la nuova strada dritta scaviamo i vecchi campi
almeno sette piedi e un quarto di pollice, le grandi ferrovie spazzano tutto il resto
Un centinaio di manovali nel ’36 finirono al creatore
mentre lo scuro Box Tunnel scava il proprio percorso seguendo l’impresario delle pompe funebri

Duro, forgiato nel ferro, source opposition: Dio benedica Isambard!
Il pistone scalpita, la fornace brucia, (lui) gioca la carta vincente

Pioggia, Vapore, Velocità a Maidenhead - l’ampia visione di Turner
Attraverso ponti, travi, rivetti battuti a caldo, guidano sicuri
i vagoni passeggeri da Paddington al blu salmastro di Bristol
Avanti contro le onde, con un migliaio di cavalli, un giro di vite infernale

(Chorus) Caldo, forgiato in ferro, l’ingegnere: Dio benedica Isambard!
Il pistone scalpita, a fornace brucia, (lui) gioca la carta vincente

Ma quei cari ragazzi che vengono dal north, meritavano l’ultima risata:
la nuova età matura era diventata lo standard, quattro piedi, otto e mezzo:
e di corsa in tutta Europa, attraversando il pazzo, orribile mondo dell’Impero
venne l’età del vapore e dei motori roboanti, il coraggioso bronzeo Jack svelato,
Palazzi con le arcate a Praed Street si ergono maestosi e sereni;
dimora del loro fautore e le sue ultime due miglia fino alla silenziosa Kensal Green.

 

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Sono venuto a corteggiarti su ordine dello Zio Leone, ho fatto del mio meglio
per conquistare e adulare, davvero, mi sno mosso per sistemare il Principe Sassone
Appena diciassettenne, sei stata ringalluzzita, hai spazzato via il semplice ragazzo orange
e creato per me il rifugio di un consorte nel tuo cuore, un rifugio di gioia.

Ora l’Impero macchia semper di più l’Atlante, lascia il segno.
Le mani degli uomini in navi di ferro alimentano le caldaie, attizzano il fuoco
Prodighi di fatti e promesse, i nostri emissari fanno un buon lavoro
e pagano con moneta sovrana della Regina le merci facendo fortuna in tutto il mondo
Li vinceremo e li controlleremo, non con l’aiuto dei moschetti Enfield Pattern:
nessuna dura coercizione, ne frusta o bastone ma dieci scellini buoni
Vedete, offriamo contratti chiari in Inglese, nero su bianco
in caratteri minuscoli, dettagli di poco conto: nulla di importante, non abbiate paura
Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, regna sulla terra e le onde
Lo spirito anseatico ci arricchirà e ci terrà lontani dalla morte precoce
Dolce Vittoria, Madre Inghilterra, amata regina che Dio salverà

Lasceremo doni architettonici, ingegneristici, leggi e altro ancora.
Le mazze da cricket, la bombetta dei gentlemen che segnano i punti
Un severo codice di condotta morale, may ingannare i servi
Un lancio third e - meglio di tutto - quando arriva il momento, ci congediamo
(Chorus) Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, regna sulla terra e le onde
Lo spirito anseatico ci arricchirà e ci terrà lontani dalla morte precoce
Mia dolce Vittoria, il tuo carissimo Albert; due note sopra il pentagramma

 

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Dopo la battaglia, a leccarsi le ferite e gli innamorati si ritrovano
Razionamenti, austerità: ci ha fatto bene dopo le battaglie
Ora, è tempo di dare un sentito addio e allontanarsi dall’Impero che si sbriciola
Il baby boom del dopoguerra alimenta i divertimenti seminudi del post-vittorianesimo

Vedo uno schermo, un tabo catodico grigio in una struttura di noce, il vanto della casa
nel tinello della sacra famiglia. L’annunciatrice che biascica, il viso incipriato
E ’il momento di formare l’opinione pubblica, santificare i buoni e i grandi
Signorilmente sul proprio dominio, l’insolente Televisione segna i nostri destini

(Chorus) Dopo queste guerre, quando spirano venti più gentili
Dopo queste guerre, quando si iniziano a vedere i bordi delle calze
Quande le cooperative ci davano il pane quotidiano e la penicillina salvava i malati
e le associazioni di agricoltori ci sfamavano, dopo queste guerre

Abbiamo ringraziato gli Yankee e il Signore per averci risparmiato l’invasione nera
Ora tocca liberare, ricostruire e trovare i nuovi equilibri in Europe
Sinistre spie venute dal freddo con menzogne ​​e segreti da vendere
a fratelli più grandi, bomb più grandi, i thrillers di Le Carré da raccontare

Prendiamo il nostro posto tra quegli altri che non sanno gestire queste situazioni
Ci ammantiamo di splendore, lo splendore della vecchia Britannia Grande
Una particina a Hollywood, il vecchio poeta, tollerato
Il vecchio pasticcione sul palco, stanco, semperverde ma sopravvalutato

Dopo queste guerre, quando spirano venti più gentili
Dopo queste guerre, quando si vedono i reggicalze
Quande le cooperative ci hanno dato il pane quotidiano e la penicillina ha curato i malati
e le associazioni di agricoltori ci hanno sfamato, dopo queste guerre

 

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Nuovo sangue, vecchie vene, risuonano nella nuova alba
Ti piace, lo prendi, vecchie patatine con il curry
Dai, prendiamolo! Tempus Fugit. E ’il momento di fregare il medico legal
Pacchetti viaggio covenienti nella terra di Giovanni Forestiero
Nuovo sangue, vecchie vene, i bambini non vedono l’ora di andare
La porta accanto, i vicini invidiosi sbirciano dalle tende tirate
la Mini Familiare con le finiture in legno. Caccia dietro i bagagli
Sul traghetto, tutti contenti, ci si sporge, pantaloni a vita troppo bassa
Là fuori, molto oltre i moli e le palizzate Vittoriane.
Devo agitare lo zucchero filato. Basta limonate o ginger beer
Sali, scendi. Il Duty Free, Dover, Calais
Inumidisci le labbra, un sorso robusto. Brandy da due lire, un Beaujolais fresco
E ’il momento di visitare posti nuovi, non aver paura, raggiungeremo il gruppo
Ricordati solo chi comanda, non far scoppiare il materassino. Cerca di capire:
stiamo impazzendo, semper più continentali, calzini e sandali, le Tapas al bar.
Con il vocabolarietto, un orario appena comprato, lezioni di chitarra spagnola

Addio Blackpool, vado dove c’è semper il sole
Bevi e poi rimetti. Watneys Red: proprio quello che fa per me
Il fazzoletto annodato messo troppo tardi, che male il melanoma
In un attimo dal calore di Malaga all’aeroporto di Luton sotto la pioggia

 

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Ho iniziato, per cui finirò. Sono qui, dunque resterò
Tiro tardi con una ragazzina incontrata per strada
Basta un penny per varcare il tornello
in cerca del filone giusto prima che sia troppo tardi
Semi d’orzo che germogliano, sparsi per terra
Sono il cappellaio matto, semper più grasso, dentro per una sterlina
Dentro per una sterlina
Dentro per una sterlina
Dentro per una sterlina

 

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Pianificazione familiare esponenziale: fatemi giocare il gioco dei numeri,
ho firmato per gli sgravi, ottengo quello che mi è dovuto e rivendico la proprietà
Mi riverso in periferia poi mi spingo verso la campagna aperta
e quando l’ultima coltura sarà stata presa, mi riverserò da un’altra parte

Ingiallisce il verde: staremo stretti come sardine in scatola
Lemmi alla nostra destra e alla nostra sinistra e ovunque ...
E’il verde che ingiallisce

Sii fecondo: non ci vuole nulla. Riempi la terra, la soggioghi, ti moltiplichi
E’s scritto in quel Libro del Bene. Dunque, è meglio che mi adegui
Un altro fiorire come nel baby boom? Fecondità idiota?
Un’altra bocca, ma che diavolo? Assegni per i figli, tutto gratuito

Ingiallisce il verde: staremo stretti come sardine in scatola
Lemmi alla nostra destra e alla nostra sinistra e ovunque ...
E’il verde che ingiallisce

Un ragazzino, una ragazzina: tutto perfetto ma non basterà
Bimbi che mi saltano sulle ginocchia; be o sette sarebbero carini
Vieni, è l’ora di andare col Papà, cerchiamo qualche spazio aperto per giocare
su questi campi di cemento inglese, questo regno benedetto, questo posto benedetto

Ingiallisce il verde: staremo stretti come sardine in scatola
Lemmi alla nostra destra e alla nostra sinistra e ovunque ...
E’il verde che ingiallisce

 

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Ci abbiamo pensato per un secolo o due. Tutto considerato alla luce di una storia so breve
Leftovers lasciarli liberi sulle stelle? Portereste le loro acque scure e fangose ​​a bagnare coste
incontaminate?
Stan bene dove stanno seguendo il proprio destino. Ma - farli crescere come conigli in altri mondi e
con animo più calmo?

Per Errationes Ad Astra? Poi sogna, continua a sognare. Il sogno è tutto. Il buon senso non esiste
più.

Neil, Buzz e Michael, loro erano una squadra. Uomini veri in una scatoletta di patè.
La coraggiosa avventura non ha prodotto nulla, la logica economica l’ha avuta vinta.
Una bollicina di pura luce dai potenti motori che hanno squarciato la notte sulla rampa di lancio
39A. Satelliti e Soyuz infilati su torri di ossigeno liquido e idrogeno.

Ma che petardo minuscolo, che minuscolo fuoco d’artificio di fronte allo schianto cosmico di
infuocate fusioni quando le galassie si scontrano: annegato nella vastità di tutto ciò che vediamo e
che, però, possiamo solo immaginare.

E allora non preoccupiamoci dell’uomo errante. Vagherà fin qui se potrà. Ma il suo tempo potrebbe
essere già venuto. E passato.

 

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Non voglio deprimervi ma devo dirvi con sincerità
che ci sono zombi nel ripostiglio e che non aspetteranno
Siamo una tribù di cannibali che non sputa nemmeno un morso
e naviga questo deserto della nostra fredda conta dei morti

Qualcuno ha le carte, le coordinate o le mappe?
Uno straccio di direzione per evitare ulteriori sbagli
Gettare i dadi o lanciare una monetina decide cosa può portare Signora fortuna
quando navighiamo questo deserto della nostra fredda, cadaverica conta

Tumulto, tempesta, tsunami, non abbiamo già sentito tutto?
Aspetta la Bestia per iniziare la festa, questo party è semper aperto
Sono tutti benvenuti! Tutti uniti in penitenza, se fa piacere al Re,
mentre navighiamo questo deserto della nostra fredda, cadaverica conta

Abbiamo posto fiducia in tristi leader pieni di dubbi che ci hanno guidato
nell’oscurità per scivolare tra le fila dei morti viventi.
Mandaci un simbolo a guidarci, un uccellino sull’ala
mentre navighiamo questo deserto della nostra fredda, cadaverica conta

E adesso, torniamo a Doggerland: una forza più alta e potent redimerà tutti coloro
che hanno perso la bussola morale, che non sono riusciti a condurre, a realizzare il sogno?
La testimonianza annerirà e l’appiccicosa reputazione si avvinghierà?
E noi navighiamo questo deserto della nostra fredda, cadaverica conta

Animo, Charlie, mostra un sorriso, testa alta e avanti
Guarda! Angeli che ci custodiscono; il serpente, la colomba, l’avvoltoio che gira
Dev’esserci un altro Eden, un giardino futuro di delizie terrene
La prossima volta, niente frutti: con il vestito della festa, cammina nudo nella notte celestiale
mentre noi navighiamo questo deserto della nostra fredda, cadaverica conta

 

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Czech

Translation by Vladimír Repík

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Naše kroky přes most Doggerland
Doháněly ustupující led a sníh
Sotva dech jsme popadali
Od mysu západního k vodám moří severních
Jadérka Albionu vítr rozfoukal
Po vřesovištích rozházel
Pod slatí vlhkou dlouho spala
By dubům silným jednou život dala

Všichni přejdem´ Doggerland
Všichni vpřed, už vlny jdou
S námi běží kanec, los a vlk
Vzhůru v zem tu přístupnou

Uhoditkomem, pazourkem, zbraní kostěnou
Na stopě jsme a v jednom kuse na nohou
Zas místo další, kde zvednem´ střechu nad hlavou
A stěny čtyři, které úkrytem nám jsou
Na tomhle plácku požehnaném -
Toť země, království, toť Anglie
Ostrov osamělý, co stranou se drží za vodou

Všichni přejdem´ Doggerland
Všichni vpřed, už vlny jdou
S námi běží kanec, los a vlk
Vzhůru v zem tu přístupnou

Teď zpátky přes most Doggerland, španělské pláže berem´ útokem
Hřejivá farma v Toskánsku předčí Zimu, která svírá zem
My penzisté senilní, tvář sluncem svitu svraštělou
Pro tuto zemi, království, tu Anglii
Kde celý hřbitov zaberem´

Všichni přejdem´ Doggerland
Všichni vpřed, už vlny jdou
Přejdem´ s kufrem, dětma, krémem slunečním
Hypotéka tíží, sny nesplněny jsou
Všichni přejdem´ Doggerland
Všichni vpřed, už vlny jdou
S námi běží kanec, los a vlk
Vzhůru v zem tu přístupnou

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Já jsem kovář. Svůj tyglík láduju
Tvaruju svý čepele z uhlíkový ocele
V zemi zas ruchadlo s radlicí se činí
Po mýtinách lesních hroudu drtí vesele
V dusným míru, však s krví zpěněnou
Svým řemeslem černým se kladivem probíjím

Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker,
Avro, Gloster, Handley Page,
Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser,
Springfield, Ruger, všichni v ráži asi,
Holland Holland, Boss a Purdey,
Woodward, Greener - kde jsou zlatý časy

Každej atom arzenálu v dalekým slunce západu se kuje
Nesvatá Trojice teď podobu novou
Pluhu a pistoli propůjčuje -
Harry S. a Oppenheimer, Fermi,
Plate - pánové, co jste to provedli?
A modlili se vůbec, aby nás Pán cestami svými ved´,
Už bitvu jsme k vítězství dovedli?

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Prostor. Místo. Bute proti. Zadržte. Blokujte. Zastavte.
Pardon - my jdeme dál.

My legie římské ubíráme se cestou svou
Po stále širších Říše silnicích
Dlouhé trati rovné k novým obzorům
Ohni táborovými zlatě tónované
Staré Corinium Dobunnorum
Durovernum Cantiacorum
Troufalé Londinium možnost řeči skýtá
Tržiště a velké forum

Anglové, Sasové, Dánové a Normani
stoupají po dlouhé křivce poznání
Alfík, hlava bystrá, potom v bitvě je tu
Koláče spálit nechal v rovinách Somersetu
Vilda Dobyvatel kus práce s tímhle dá si
Na Stránkách dne soudného naše číslo znamená si…
Ovce a prasata v davu se tísní,
Desátky tučné a daně jsou břemenem místním

Paláce z pizzy, Království karbanátků
Jak cocaine cola, punčochy nylonové
Playboy, Newsweek, Time a Life
GI Joe, šok ze smaženky lančmítové

Studené války šermování, langlayské špehování
Grosvenor Square (stanice Londýn)
Elvis bokem chvěje, Marilyn se směje
John Birch proti Národům spojeným

Žvejkačky, bez Googlu ani ránu
Síť sociální na Facebooku šílí
Apple mac a i-phone app, Gibson
Fender zvuk filigránský s námi tu sdílí
Star Trek, Hlídka pobřežní, Přátele a Sopránovi
Křídlo západní, Madmeni, Živých mrtvých dav
Důstojník Rick nakonec dosáhne svého
Vymete se zombíky - vyžene je z našich hlav

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Nelítostný vítr severní
Ostrov Lindisfarne bičuje
Duším hledajícím zkušenost let svých nabízím
Moudrost v knize věků svatých prošlých zaznamenanou
Utrpení coby cesta spravedlivá
Směr svůj vprostřed vln díky ní udržíš
Nad propastí temnou, ku stěžni jsa připoután

Konstantin pragmatický houbou svou
Osuší je všechny a do čista omyje
Vše tak je, jak má býti, vše tak, jak dáno jest
Příchodu Krista dítěte my svědky jsme tu
Slunovrat Saturnův, Vánoce poskvrněné
Zde smíchány v nevinnosti cynické
V Miláně setkejte se, merendu vystroj
Však lépe jednou nohou venku pro jistotu být

Co nalézá se v knize této? Na stránkách úhledných?
Rozmáchle sepsáno, s ladem i bez ladu
Pohádky největší pro potřebné, i pro ty o hladu
Oči rozšíří jim zázrak víry znovu nabyté
Slova evangelia a vykoupení
Rozhřešení, pokud káti se budeme
Císařovo lože smrtelné, spása opožděná
Křest jeho, závěť jaksi divně chtěná

Hle, zde přichází to děcko divé. Ten rozhněvaný muž
Hle, zde nový věk se rozednívá. Poměry staré končí už

Matka strachy šílí. Dítě ztratilo se
Pak v chrámu nalezeno, jak se staršími rodu rozpráví
Prý dílo Otce Svého následuje. Baže -
Však brzy k nalezení opět není
To s Janem - prorokem bláznivým - společně hlavu sklání
Pak obavy a pochybnosti v poušti na břehu západním
Magic bílá, nemocných uzdravení, vymítání -
Už partie je celá - dobrých druhů dvanáctero s ním

Hle, zde přichází to děcko divé. Ten rozhněvaný muž
Hle, zde nový věk se rozednívá. Poměry staré končí už

Zaseto sémě božské - jeho Zvěstování
(Opravdu to řek´?)
Pak na hříběti oslím, klidný, směřuje k Utrpení
Ví dobře, co trest mu přinést má
Chléb tělem božím, večeře rozloučení
Odměna ve stříbře, polibek zrádný dost
Dlouhá a nelehká je trasa, ta Via Dolorosa
Necítí lítost opožděnou, je strachu zcela prost

Hle, zde přichází to děcko divé. Ten rozhněvaný muž
Hle, zde nový věk se rozednívá. Poměry staré končí už

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Berets univerzitní, taláre, kápě, prýmky ozdobné
K učení veďte mě - vědění na vzestupu
Tam, kde mysl k mysli sedá a twittery brebentí
V latině moderní - jazyce na sestupu
Ó Domine, Ó Magister, my, andělé snaživí, zanotujme
Mluvou jedinou nestárnoucí
Věci lepší následujme

Ve světě ctnosti a gramatiky bezchybné
V academy prostorách vznosných
Jsou trivium, quadrivium, kdys vědy základní
Teď k zapomnění odsouzené
Ó Domine, Ó Magister, my, andělé snaživí, zanotujme
Mluvou jedinou nestárnoucí
Věci lepší následujme

Krutě nezbedníky bili, rákoskou lískali
Tresty psát nechávali, po škole zavírali
Vše brzy zapomenuto je
Ó úskoky temné! Tenhle kluk ze základky
Svou cenu zaplatil a dostal svoje
V hodinách klidných, kdy soumrak žití zůstane
Jen vázanky školní a fotky věčné
V hlavě mi náhle stará bolest vytane
Slzy a legrácky, poslední, nekonečné

Lavice prázdné i kalamáře, kaple potemnělé
A ztichlou chodbou pavučina vlaje
Vy přízračné hábity purpurové, podnose zaprášený
Zbožnějšího věru ničeho není!
Ó Domine, Ó Magister, my, andělé snaživí, zanotujme
Mluvou jedinou nestárnoucí
Věci lepší následujme
Meliora Sequamur: kéž věci lepší následovati budeme

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Dál ani krok - průjezd zakázán
Okresky, ty dálnice minulosti
Mýtný dům na cestě hlavní zdvořile
Prosí o posečkání, tak se držte dosti
Trhovec svobodný do ucha ti křičí
Do hrsti rozum about a šanci za pačesy čapni
Máš právo projít, zboží provézt, zprávu nést
Koně přepřáhnout - tak hlas svůj zvedni
Proti tomu balíku, co za to právě chtěli - na protest
Za hříchy, co pácháme my smrtelníci
Ale spočiň teď na chvíli v tom sladkém podlehnutí
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici

Na lapku pozor dej si, pistol už tasil
Za skromný poplatek ti život nabízí
Nakonec skončí, jako ten chudák John Austin
Poslední muž na Stromě tyburnském
Pivo světlé nejsvětlejší, pivo černé nejčernější
Srdce a hruď si zavři na petlici
Hlavu pak znavenou na polštář ulož
Deku koňskou přes sebe si přehoď, pauzu dej
I když my taky z poctivýho platu tvýho ukrajujem´
Pojď a s námi lež, příteli jedinej
Spočiň teď na chvíli v tom sladkým podlehnutí
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici

Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici
Utop svý trable tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici
I když my taky z poctivýho platu tvýho ukrajujem´
Pojď a s námi lež, příteli jedinej
Spočiň teď na chvíli v tom sladkým podlehnutí
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici
Trable utop tam v Hostinci Na Mýtnici

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Po celé délce nové rovné trati
Stará pole vespod rozoráme
Dobrých sedm stop a coule čtvrt
Široké šíny duní - hrom na zemi hned máme
V tom roce šestatřicet krumpáčů stovka
Skrze firemního funebráka
Zpátky ke stvořiteli své kopáče poslala
Když si tunel kopcem v Boxu cestu prokousával

Tvrďák, ze železa litý, tenhle inženýr: Bůh Isambardovi ať požehná!
Pístů skřípot, kotle hukot
(on) kartu vítěznou teď na stůl dá

Déšť, Pára, Rychlost v Maidenheadu
-Turnerovy vice malované
Přes mosty a přejezdy za horka nýtované
Bezpečně cestovní vagony z Paddingtonu vedu
Až k bristolské louži slané
A tam dál pak vlny proráží koňských sil tisíce
Šroubem pěnícím vpřed hnané

Však tamti šohajové švarní odkudsi ze Severa
Smáti se chtějí naposledy:
Ten nový věk hned znamenal
Že rozchod kolejí se normou stal
Čtyři stopy, osm a půl coulu
Pak na cestu se do Evropy dal
Přes šílené zlé Impérium byl hnán
Věk páry a strojů parních byl tady
Ten řvoucí nestoudný strejda s náručí dokořán
Klenuté paláce v ulici nádražní v klidu a velebně se skvěly
Domovem tvůrce svého staly se a poslední dvě míle
Na ospalý Kensal Green ho provázely

Tvrďák, ze železa litý, tenhle inženýr: Bůh Isambardovi ať požehná!
Pístů skřípot, kotle hukot
(on) kartu vítěznou teď na stůl dá

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Jal jsem se o Vaši přízeň na přání Strýce Lea ucházeti
Největší snahu jsem vynaložil, abych okouzlil a polichotil
Ukonejšil, nápady sypal
Jak pletichami Prince saského k odpočinku dotlačiti
V pouhých sedmnácti jste byla kuráže plná
Prostého hocha Oranžského odmítla
A přístav manželský mi poskytla
V srdci svém, tom přístavu radovánek

Teď pod Impériem velká skvrna rozlévá se
Po atlase celém své stopy zanechává
V lodích ze železa ruka chlapská k dílu má se
Do svých kotlů přikládají, jiskry odhání
Šlechetní ve skutcích a ve slibech svatí
Emisary naše spravedlivý obchod pohání
A svrchovanou Královny mincí za tovar platí
Světaznale svá bohatství hromadí

My nad nimi vyhrajeme, my je ovládnem´
Však ne puškou Enfieldovou
Nikoliv násilím tvrdým, bičem či holí
Nýbrž šilinků deset je vyhlídkou novou
Hle, kontrakty máme jasné, platné
V jazyce anglickém, obsah je prostý, zdá se
Jen dole písmem malým drobnosti nepodstatné
Však žádné strachy, o nic nejedná se

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica
Vládne suchou zemí, vlny vod ho smáčí
Duch hanzovní nás obohatí, snad aby život nebyl kratší
Viktorie sladká, Anglie Matko, královno laskavá
Kéž tě Pán Bůh spasit ráčí

Necháme jim architektury naší dary
Též stroje, zákon, myšlenky na pokrok
Na kriket pálku vrbovou, buřinky služby cenné
Pro gentlemany, co s módou drží krok
A code of morální pro hlavy osvícené
S ním služebnictvo sotva šidit smíme
Kouli rovně házet naučíme, a nakonec to nejlepší
V pravý čas se rozloučíme

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica
Vládne suchou zemí, vlny vod ho smáčí
Duch hanzovní nás obohatí, snad aby život nebyl kratší
Má Viktorie sladká, Váš milující Albert
Dva řádky nenápadné nahoru nad noty patří

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Po bitvě, když rány je čas lízat
Krasavci s kráskami zas navzájem jsou k mání
Příděly, střídmost - prospívá po všem tom bojování
Teď na čase je nabídnout jistá milá rozloučení
A stranou jít od drolících se impérií
Explozi populační po válce posílit
Poviktoriánským tápáním polonahým

Vidím obrazovku, šedou bublinu katodovou
Ve skříňce z ořechu, rodiny chloubu
V posvátném obýváku
Napudrovaný hlasatel
Tónem odměřeným
Teď mínění veřejné formuluje
Posvětit, co dobré a co skvělé tu je
Povýšeně ze své domény
Neomalená televize náš osud pečetí

Po těchto válkách, kdy se vichry uklidnily