7 Middagh
Benji and Carson
As the bombs began to fall on London
Were down by the Brooklyn Bridge
Drinking a toast to the moments
They had written that day
Wystan was wrestling
Over interesting passages in Henry James
In which it said
The commentator and the man are not the same
They drank in the bar
And wrote in the parlour
They could not hear the bombs
In the Northern Heights
They were too far away
To see those fearsome lights
But they felt them
Gypsy did striptease
While the editor was fed up with her habits
Always naked to breakfast
And cooked up a cocktail
That was two parts whiskey
One part benzedrine tablets
They drank in the bar
And wrote in the parlour
They could not hear the bombs
In the Northern Heights
They were too far away
To see those fearsome lights
But they felt them
And their dreams were
Bright colored brilliant
The kind of dreams where
Poems by Wilfred Owen
Could be read in reverse
And spare the seed of Europe one by one
And glasses of sherry
Were not necessary
To make the days more manageable
With London calling them cowards
They could not hear the bombs
In the Northern Heights
They were too far away
To see those fearsome lights
But they felt them
But modern's a stillbirth
That was born before it died in 1939
Or was it '45?
And we've been attending
The longest saddest funeral
In history without even knowing
7 Middagh
Benji e Carson
Enquanto as bombas começavam a cair em Londres
Estavam perto da Ponte do Brooklyn
Fazendo um brinde aos momentos
Que escreveram naquele dia
Wystan estava debatendo
Sobre trechos interessantes de Henry James
Em que dizia
Que o comentarista e o homem não são a mesma pessoa
Eles bebiam no bar
E escreviam na sala
Não podiam ouvir as bombas
Nas Alturas do Norte
Estavam longe demais
Para ver aquelas luzes assustadoras
Mas as sentiam
A cigana fez striptease
Enquanto o editor estava cansado de seus hábitos
Sempre nua no café da manhã
E preparou um coquetel
Que era duas partes de uísque
Uma parte de comprimidos de benzedrina
Eles bebiam no bar
E escreviam na sala
Não podiam ouvir as bombas
Nas Alturas do Norte
Estavam longe demais
Para ver aquelas luzes assustadoras
Mas as sentiam
E seus sonhos eram
Coloridos e brilhantes
Aquele tipo de sonho onde
Poemas de Wilfred Owen
Podiam ser lidos ao contrário
E poupar a semente da Europa um a um
E taças de xerez
Não eram necessárias
Para tornar os dias mais suportáveis
Com Londres chamando-os de covardes
Não podiam ouvir as bombas
Nas Alturas do Norte
Estavam longe demais
Para ver aquelas luzes assustadoras
Mas as sentiam
Mas o moderno é um natimorto
Que nasceu antes de morrer em 1939
Ou foi em 45?
E temos assistido
O funeral mais longo e triste
Da história sem nem perceber