Distel (Thistle) |
(see German original) |
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I know my way in every maw |
jumping, skipping, dashing, |
sometimes I hit a grotty hole |
a flower in a vase |
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I come, I go, I'm fleeing, |
but never, never can I stay |
and when I slam a door |
I'm leering at the next one |
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Oh, if I were a thistle |
in deserted wasteland |
I'd be sitting in the ground |
and dreamt that we were two. |
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I doubt and cough, I burp and fester |
my belly is in uproar |
I dig and rut, turn every stone |
I stray just everywhere. |
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And what I find, litter, crap, |
I shake it, bend it, turn it 'round. |
There is no peace, I go for everything. |
That's what plagues me on and on. |
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Oh, if I were a thistle . . . |
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Inside I cry for meaning, more |
not even when I piss I'm calm |
sometimes I think there's something, yeah, |
't was just a joke, me silly cow! |
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And hangin' 'round with other guys |
just gives me empty blarney talk |
And when I give it a closer eye: |
it's the same greed but different titties |
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Oh, if I were a thistle |
in deserted wasteland |
I'd be sitting in the ground |
and dreamt that we were two, |
and dreamt that we were two. |
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