Альбом Jethro Tull

Happy, and I'm smiling, walk a mile to drink your water.
You know I'd love to love you, and above you there's no other
We'll go walking out while others shout of war's disaster.
Oh, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.

Once I'd used to join in every boy and girl was my friend.
Now there's revolution but they don't know what they're fighting.
Let us close our eyes. Outside their lives go on much faster
Oh, be forgiving, we'll keep living in the past.

Oh, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.
Oh, no, no, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.

Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot is running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey Aqualung!

Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey Aqualung!
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Hey, Aqualung!

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Neck hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog end
He goes down to the bog and
warms his feet.
Feeling alone
the army's up the road
salvation a la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't ya start away uneasy
you poor old sot
you see it's only me.

Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze
when the ice that clings on to your beard
was screaming agony
Hey, did you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Neck hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog end
He goes down to the bog and
warms his feet.
Feeling alone
the army's up the road
salvation a la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't ya start away uneasy
you poor old sot
you see it's only me.

De de, de de, de de, de de, de de,
De de, de de, de de, de de, de de
Aqualung my friend
don't ya start away uneasy
you poor old sot
you see it's only me.

Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot's running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey Aqualung!

Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey Aqualung!
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Hey, Aqualung!

The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---
the transport caf' prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.

Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.

He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars
and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.

Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.

So the old Rocker gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.

And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.

In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath
Runs the all time loser
Headlong to his death

He feels the pistons scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train it won't stop going
No way to slow down

He sees his children jumping off
At the stations one by one
His woman and his best friend
In bed and having fun

He's crawling down the corridor
On his hands and knees
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train it won't stop going
No way to slow down, yeah

He hears the silence howling
Catches angels as they fall
And the all time winner
Has got him by the balls

He picks up Gideons Bible
Open at page one
God He stole the handle and
The train won't stop going
No way to slow down

Meanwhile back in the year one,
When you belonged to no one,
You didn't stand a chance, son,
If your pants were undone.

'Cause you were bred, for humanity
And sold to society
One day you'll wake up, in the present day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.

Skating away, skating away, skating away,
On the thin ice of the new day

So as you push off from the shore,
Won't you turn your head once more
And make your peace with everyone.
For those who choose to stay
Will live just one more day,
To do the things they should've done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
Spinning in your emptiness
If you have to, pray.
Looking for a sign, that the universal minds
Has written you into the passion play.

Skating away, skating away, skating away
On the thin ice of the new day

And as you cross the circle line,
Well the ice wall creaks behind
You're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly
In the corner of your eye,
Shining in the setting sun.
Well do you ever get the feeling
That the story's too damn real
And in the present tense.
Or that everbody's on the stage
And it seems like you're the only
Person sitting in the audience

Skating away, skating away, skating away
On the thin ice of the new day

Skating away, skating away, skating away

Walking through forests of palm tree apartments ---
scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents
down by the waterhole --- drunk every Friday ---
eating their nuts --- saving their raisins for Sunday.
Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows ---
they're fast but they're lazy, and sleep in green meadows.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle.
Well, that's all right by me, yeah.
Well, I'm a tiger when I want love;
I'm a snake if we disagree.

Just say a word and the boys will be right there,
with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air.
Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?
Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.
I'll write on your tombstone, "I thank you for dinner.''
This game that we animals play is a winner.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle.
Well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love;
I'm a snake if we disagree.

The rivers are full of crocodile nasties,
and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
He's a lover of life, but a player of pawns ---
yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn
to light up His Jungle as play is resumed.
The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle.
Well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love.
I'm a snake when we disagree.

Yes, let's bungle in the jungle.
Well, that's all right by me, yes.
Well, I'm a tiger when I want love.
I'm a snake when we disagree.

Let's bungle in the jungle.
Well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger...

(fade out)

you'll hear me calling in your sweet dream
can't hear your daddy's warning cry
you're going back to be all the things you want to be
while in sweet dreams you softly sigh

you hear my voice is calling
to be mine again
live the rest of your life in a day

get out and get what you can
while your mummy's at home a-sleeping
no time to understand
'cause they lost what they thought they were keeping

no one can see us in your sweet dream
don't hear you leave to start the car
all wrapped up tightly in the coat you borrowed from me,
your place of resting is not far

you hear my voice is calling
to be mine again
live the rest of your life in a day

get out and get what you can
while your mummy's at home a-sleeping
no time to understand
'cause they lost what they thought they were keeping

Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how the garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
Join the chorus if you can:
it'll make of you an honest man.
Let me bring you love from the field:
poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover's lane.
Life's long celebration's here.
I'll toast you all in penny cheer.
Let me bring you all things refined:
galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.
Greetings well met fellow, hail!
I am the wind to fill your sail.
I am the cross to take your nail:
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better.

Lend me your ear while I call you a fool.
You were kissed by a witch one night in the wood,
and later insisted your feelings were true.
The witch's promise was coming,
believing he listened while laughing you flew.

Leaves falling red, yellow, brown, all are the same,
and the love you have found lay outside in the rain.
Washed clean by the water but nursing its pain.
The witch's promise was coming, and you're looking
elsewhere for your own selfish gain.

Keep looking, keep looking for somewhere to be,
well, you're wasting your time, they're not stupid like he is.
Meanwhile leaves are still falling, you're too blind to see.

You won't find it easy now, it's only fair.
He was willing to give to you, you didn't care.
You're waiting for more but you've already had your share.
The witch's promise is turning, so don't you wait up
for him, he's going to be late.

Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away
in the tidal destruction the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
as the last wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels
and your suntan does rapidly peel
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.

And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today
and you shake your head and say it's a shame.

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll make a man of him, put him to trade
teach him to play Monopoly and how to sing in the rain.

The Poet and the Painter casting shadows on the water
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping, their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have all gone into service
and are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever faster -
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.

What do you do when the old man's gone - do you want to be him?
And your real self sings the song. Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.

LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals! I've got to put you straight
just like I did with my old man twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.

You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone,
you meet the stares, you're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers
and your downy little sidies
and your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case,
you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.

So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.

You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.

LATER.
See there! A man born and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We'll take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.

QUOTE
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.

LATER
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured
(in neat little rows) sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying: "How's your granny?" and good old Ernie:
he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.
The legends (worded in
the ancient tribal hymn)
lie cradled in the seagull's call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.

The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun. Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!
The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night
and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!

Let me tell you the tales of your life
of your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie
in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red
while the fool toasts his god in the sky.

So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead
as the sins of the father are fed
with the blood of the fools
and the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song
as the wise man breaks wind and is gone
while the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose
and the nursery rhyme winds along.

So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.
Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour
or the wiser man who rushes clear.

So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.

So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual

OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields
and you make all your animal deals
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces
He met the gazes, observed the spaces
Between the old men's cackle
He brewed a song of love and hatred
Oblique suggestions, and he waited
He polarized the pumpkin eaters
Static-humming panel beaters
Freshly day-glowed factory cheaters
Salaried and collar-scrubbing
He titillated men of action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention
He pacified the nappy-suffering
Infant-bleating, one-line jokers
T.V. documentary makers
Overfed and undertakers
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women-haters
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made

[INSTRUMENTAL]

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces
He met the gazes, observed the spaces
In between the old men's cackle
And he brewed a song of love and hatred
Oblique suggestions, and he waited
He polarized the pumpkin eaters
Static-humming panel beaters
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit run
And he threw away his looking glass
He saw his face in everyone
Titillated men of action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention
Salaried and collar-scrubbing

He pacified the nappy-suffering
Infant-bleating, one-line jokers
T.V. documentary makers
Overfed and undertakers
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women haters
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit run
And he threw away his looking glass
'Cause he saw his face in everyone

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces
Met the gazes
The minstrel in the gallery

When you've fallen awake
And you take
Stock of the new day.

And you hear your voice croak
As you choke
on what you need to say.

Well, don't you fret
Don't you fear.
I will give you good chear.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
If you wait then your plate I will fill.

As the verses unfold
And your soul
Suffers the long day.

And the twelve o'clock gloom
Spins the room
You struggle on your way.

Well, don't you sigh
Don't you cry.
Lick the dust from your eye.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.

As the Baker Street train
Spills your pain
All over your new dress.

And the symphony sounds
underground
But you wanted to rest.

Well, don't you squeal
As the mill
Grinds you under its wheel.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
But the tune ends too soon for us all.

Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
But the tune ends too soon for us all.