Песню исполняет Конвэй Сэвэдж

Down in the willow garden, me and my love did meet
And as we sat a-courting, my love fell off to sleep
I had a bottle of burgundy wine; my love, she did not know
And so I poisoned that dear little girl along the banks below
Along the banks below

I drew my saber through her; it was a bloody night
I threw her in the river, which was a dreadful sight
My father often told me that money would set me free
And so I murdered that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly

My father sits at his cabin door wiping his tear-dimmed eyes
His only son soon should walk to yonder scaffold high
My race is run beneath the sun; the scaffold now waits for me
For I did murder that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly

I stepped into an avalanche
It covered up my soul
When I am not this hunchback that you see
I sleep beneath the golden hill
You who wish to conquer pain
You must learn to serve me well

You strike my side by accident
As you go down to your goal
This cripple here that you clothe and feed
Is neither starved nor cold
He does not ask for your company
Not at the centre, the centre of the world

I who am on a pedestal
You did not raise me there
Your laws do not compel me now
To kneel grotesque and bare
For I myself am the pedestal
For this ugly hump at which you stare

You who wish to conquer pain
You must learn what makes me kind
The crumbs of love that you offer me
Are the crumbs I’ve left behind
Your pain is no credential here
It’s just a shadow of my wound

I have begun to ask for you
I who have no greed
I have begun to long for you
I who have no need
You say you’ve gone away from me
But I can feel you when you breathe

Do not dress in those rags for me
I know you are not poor
And do not love me quite so fiercely now
When you know that you are not sure
It is your turn, my beloved one
It is your flesh that I wear.

The Captain’s fore-arm like buncht-up rope,
With A-N-I-T-A wrigglin free outa skull ‘n’ dagger
And a portrait of Christ, nailed to an anchor,
Etched into the upper…
Slams his fucken tin dish down.
Our Captain takes time to crush
Some bloo-bottles glowin in his gruel,
With a lump in his throat and lumpy mush,
Thumbing a scrap-book stuck up with clag
And a morbid lump of love in his flag.
Done is the kissing, now all that remains
Is to sail forever upon the stain.
Cabin Fever! O, O O Cabin Fever!
The Captain’s free hand is a cleaver
With which he fashions his beard and rations his jerky,
And carves his peg outta the finest mahogany!
Or was it ebony? Yeah, it was ebony!
He tallys up his loneliness notch by notch,
For the sea offers nuthin to hold or touch.
Notch by notch, winter by winter,
Notch by notch, winter by winter.
Now his leg is whittled right down to a splinter.
O, O Cabin Fever! Cabin Fever!
O the rollin sea still rollin on!
She’s everywhere! now that she’s gone! Gone! Gone!
O Cabin Fever! O Cabin Fever!

Welcome to the table, his beloved-unconscious
Raisin her nest of hair from her crooks
And strugglin to summon up one of her looks!
His arm now, like coiled s-s-s-snakes,
Whips all the bottles that he’s drunked
Like crystal skittles about the cabin
Of a ship they’d been sailing five years sunken.

Along crags and sunless cracks I go
Up rib of rock, down spine of stone
I dare not slumber where the night winds whistle
Lest her creeping soul clutch this heart of thistle.

O the same God that abandoned her
Has in turn abandoned me
And softening the turf with my tears
I dug a well of misery.

And in that well of misery
Hangs a bucket full of sorrow
Which swings slow and aching like a bell
Its toll is dead and hollow.

Down that well lies the long-lost dress
Of my little floating girl
That muffles a tear that you let fall
All down the well of misery.

Put your shoulder to the handle if you dare
And hoist that bucket hither
Crank and hoist and hoist and crank
‘Til your muscles waste and wither.

O the same God that abandoned her
Has in turn abandoned me
Deep in the Desert of Despair
I wait at the Well of Misery.

Ah wanna tell you about a girl
You know, she lives in Room 29
Why that’s the one right up top a mine
Ah start to cry, ah start to cry-y
O ah hear her walkin
Walkin barefoot cross the floor-boards
All through this lonesome night
And ah hear her crying too
Hot tears come splashin down
Leakin through the cracks
Down upon my face, ah catch em in my mouth!
Walk ‘n’ Cry, Walk ‘n’ Cry-y!
From her to eternity
From her to eternity
From her to eternity
Ah read her diary on her sheets
Scrutinizin every lil piece of dirt.
Tore out a page ‘n’ stufft it inside my shirt.
Fled outa the window
And shinning it down the vine
Outa her nightmare and back into mine.
Mine! O mine!
From her to eternity
From her to eternity
From her to eternity
Cry! Cry! Cry!
She’s wearin them bloo-stockens, ah bet!
And standin like this with my ear to the ceiling
Listen ah know it must sound absurd
But ah can hear the most melancholy sound
Ah ever heard!
Walk ‘n’ Cry! Kneel ‘n’ Cry-y!
From her to eternity
From her to eternity.

O tell me why? why? why?
Why the ceiling still shakes?
Why the furniture turns to serpents ‘n’ snakes?
This desire to possess her is a wound
And it’s naggin at me like a shrew
But ah know that to possess her
Is therefore not to desire her
O, O O then ya know, that lil girl would just have to go!
Go! Go-o-o! From her to eternity.

Born of the river,
Born of its never-changing, never-changing murky water
Huck standing like a Saint, upon its deck
If ya wanna catch a Saint,
then bait ja hook, let’s take a walk…

‘O come to me!, O come to me!’ is what the dirt-irty
say to Huck… HUCK
woah-woah, woah woah!
Saint Huck! Huck!

Straight in the arms of the city goes Huck,
down the heckoning streets of op-po-tunity
whistling his favorite river-song…
And a bad-bline-nigger at the piano
Buts a sinister-bloo-lilt to that sing-a-long
Huck senses somthing’s wrong!

Sirens wail in the city,
and lil-Ulysses turn to putty
Ol man River’s got a bone to pick!
Our boys hardly got a bone to suck!
He go, woah-woah, woah woah!
Saint Huck! Huck!

The mo-o-o-on, its huge cycloptic eye
watches the city streets contract
twist and cripple and crack.
Saint Huck goes on a dog’s-leg now
Saint Huck goes on a dog’s-leg now

Why, you know the story!
Ya wake up one morning and ya find your a thug
blowing smoke fings in some dive
Ya fingers hot and itchin, cracking ya knuckles
Ya bull neck briseting…
Still Huck he ventures on whistling,

and Death reckons Huckleberry’s time is up,
O woah woah woah!
Saint Huck! Huck!
Yonder go Huck, minus pocket-watch an’ wallet gone
Skin shrinks wraps his skeleton
No wonder he got thinner, not, with his cold’n’skinny dinners!
Saint Huck-a-Saint Elvis, Saint Huck-a-Saint Elvis
O you recall the song ya used to sing-a-long
Shifting the river-trade on that ol’ steamer
Life is only a dream!

But ya trade in the Mighty ol’ man River
for the Dirty ol’ Man Latrine!
The brothel shift
The hustle’n'the bustle and the green-backs rustle
And all the sexy-cash
And the randy-cars
And the two dollar fucks
O o o ya onto luck, onto luck
Woah-woah-woah-woah
Saint Huck! Huck!

She loves me, she loves me not
She loves me, she loves me not

Well, I’ve spent seven days and seven nights
Trying to get sunk in this brine
Don’t turn on your water-works
‘Cause I’ve got me a pair of water-wings, right?!
Insects suicide against the window
And my heart goes out to those little flies
There’s a buzzing in my ear
But it’s more of her blackmail, ham Shakespeare and lies.
Wings off flies
She loves me, she loves me not
O, O O O oh she loves me not!

Lord, I’ve discovered the recipe of Heaven
You get solitude and mix with sanctuary and silence
Then back it!
Listen, I plead guilty to misanthropy
So hang me! And appreciate it!
Witness her gate-crash my tiny-hell
With some obscene tкte-а-tкte
If you want to talk to me about love and pain
Consult my ulcer, it’d be happy to co-operate.
Wings off flies
She loves me, she loves me not
Hey Joe, another ought to do the job.

Time to drown our little fire, you can keep the ashes
Now bye bye, bye bye, see you in a pig’s eye!
I will be one, in need of no-one
In this, my deepest dire…
Fill her up, Joe…
Hey! I am obliged! I AM OBLIGED!
Wings off flies
She loves me, she loves me not.

Who’ll build a box for Black Paul?
I’m enquiring on behalf of his soul.
I’d be beholden to you all
For a little information, just some kind of indication
Just who will dig the hole.

When you’ve done ransacking his room,
Grabbing anything that shines,
Throw the scraps down on the street,
Like all his books and his notes,
All his books and his notes and all the junk that he wrote,
The whole fucking lot right up in smoke.
Ain’t there nothing sacred anymore?
Who will build a box for Black Paul?

And they’re shooting off his guns,
And they’re shooting off their mouths,
Saying ‘Fuck with us… and die!’
(But see that rat of fear go scuttle in their skulls)
‘Cover that eye!’ ‘Cover that frozen eye!’
Black puppet, in a heap up against the stoning-wall,
Blood puppet go to sleep, Mama won’t scold you anymore.
Armies of ants wade up the little red streams
Heading for the mother-pool.
O Lord it’s cruel! O man it’s hot!
And some of those ants they just clot to the spot.
Who cast the first stone at Black Paul?

‘Dont ask us’, say the critics and the hacks
The pen-pushers and the quacks
‘We jes cum to git dah facks!!’
‘We jes cum to git dah facks!!’

Here is the hammer that built the scaffold
And built the box,
Here is the shovel that dug the hole
In this ground of rocks,
And here is the pile of stones!
And for each one planted, God only knows,
A blood-rose grown…

These are the true Demon-Flowers!
These are the true Demon-Flowers!
Stand back everyone! Blood-black every one!

Who’ll build a box for Black Paul?
Who’ll carry it up the hill?

‘Not I’, said the widow, adjusting her veil
‘Ah will not drive the nail,
Or cart his puppet-body home
For ah done that one thousand times before
Yeah! ah done that one thousand times or more.
And why should ah dress his wounds
When he has wounded my dress, nightly,
Right across the floor?’

Who’ll build a box for Black Paul?
And who’ll carry it up the hill?
Who’ll bury him in the black soil?

From the woods and the thickets
Come the ghosts of his victims
‘We love you!’
‘I love you!’
And ‘This won’t hurt a bit,
Up, up, up, up. Inhale its breath!
Oh O, Death favours those that favour Death.’

Here is the stone, and this is the inscription that it bears:
‘Below Lies Black Paul, Under The Upper
But Above And Beyond The Surface-Flat-Fall There.’

And all the angels come on down
And all the men and women crowd around
And all the widows weeping into their skirts
And all the little girls and the little boys
And all the scribes with pens poised
And all the hullabaloo, and all the noise
All the hallaballoo, all the noise
All the hallaballoo and all the noise.

Black Paul clears his throat of black blood
And sings in the voice of a lonely boy…

Well I have cried one thousand tears
I’ve cried a thousand tears, it’s true
And the next stormy night you know
That I’m still crying them for you.

Well I had a girl she was so sweet,
Red dress, and long red hair hanging down,
And heaven just ain’t heaven
Without that little girl hanging around.

Well you know I’ve been a bad man
And Lord knows I’ve done some good things too
But I confess, my soul will never rest
Until you, until you build,
Until you build a box for my girl too.

(M. Davies)

As the snow flies
On a cold and grey Chicago morn
A poor little baby child is born in the ghetto

And his mama cries
Cause there’s one thing that she don’t need
Is another little hungry mouth to feed in the ghetto

Oh people don’t you understand
This child needs a helping hand
He’s gonna grow to be an angry young man some day
Take a look at you and me
Are we that blind to see?
Do we simply turn our heads and look the other way?

And the world turns
And the hungry little boy with the runny nose
Plays in the streets as the cold wind blows in the ghetto

And his hunger burns
So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal and he learns how to fight in the ghetto

Then one night in desperation
The young man breaks away
He buys a gun and steals a car
He tries to run but he don’t get far

And his mama cries
A crowd gathers round an angry young man
Face down in the street with a gun in his hand in the ghetto

And as her young man dies
On a cold and grey Chicago morn
Another little baby child is born in the ghetto

The moon is in the gutter
And the stars wash down the sink
I am the king of the blues
I scape the clay off my shoes
And wade down the gutter and the moon

The moon blinds my eye with opal cataracts
As I cut through the saw-mills and the stacks,
Leaping over the gully where I would one day take Lucy
Then wash up my hands in the gutter and the moon.

Such a long way from home, just me and
The moon is in the gutter
All my plans are flushed down the drain
I wander lonely as a cloud
Over memories at her mound
Then lie down in the bitter gutter moon.