Текст песни: Cajun with a K + перевод

This place is just concrete split with weeds,

Child’s handprint imbedded, dated 1973.

They spell cajun with a K on the next door store sign,

Selling crawfish, cigarettes and fishing line.

And decay takes its own saccharine time.

That’s the main drag dying down there under the overpass,

Where nobody goes but those with nowhere to land:

The drifting, the insane, an occasional

College rock band in search of a gritty urban vibe

for their promotional photograph,

Then they haul their asses right back to campus

Or the truly courageous

venture down to the Blue Diamond,

sit at the bar, while the regulars slap their dominoes

down on the gold-flecked formica. Then a certain type

of nervous fella leans in to your ear, with one eye

on your girl; she’s the finest thing seen

come through these doors in years. He’s asking:

«How much? How much?»

A few poets remain, the lucky locked in and tenured

over at the state college. Knowledge

is its own reward, but if one more alcoholic

wonders out loud why I’m not a millionaire

there’s a fist for an answer.

Becky there at the register

wanted to be a dancer, ended up a cashier

instead. Don’t let dreams go to your head,

Like spunk swimming up to the ovaries.

She had a kid with special needs, who

needs to be fed. How do you make

a living out of poetry, a payday from a plié?

Like diamonds from the mud in the riverbed.

I worked at a bar

where all the divorcees would feed on each other,

blood-drunk piranhas

swimming in vodka and disco.

Where brother Alonzo was the parking valet.

He’d clock in at 4, start throwing down

Colorado bulldogs. Sitting out there in a folding chair

in a white tux shirt and a red bowtie,

weaving cars in and out between them yellow lines.

There’s Johnny Carl, the DA, throwing up

in the parking lot again, down on his knees

beside his red Cadillac but he ain’t no slack,

he’ll be back in court tomorrow—

trying to send another poor boy

through those jailhouse doors.

You damn right he done it.

Before happy hour,

the waitresses were talking.

One of their boyfriends

got so pissed at her apparent dildo addiction

he grabbed the thing right out of her hands,

opened the apartment door,

threw it off the 3rd floor balcony.

Still humming.

A midnight pink silicone rocket,

landed on the August afternoon asphalt,

still humming.

Still humming. ..

Mama don’t live here no more

Nobody knows Daddy’s name

down at the liquor store

I got nothing saved

But my fear and my rage

If I had. .. if I had my way

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