Reggae

I try to get my harbored love off bay
and have you stop waiting for kingdom come days
it´s the songs and soul riots
that wrestle with the old liars from Lexington Ave.

It´s all turned around
the starry sky´s on the ground on uptown avenues.
And the downtown down-and-out-gallery,
Caravaggio-saints from head to heel,
are told to stand clear of that fame- and- fortune- game.
And cold blows the New York rain.

The dreadful artists of Bleecker street
with their central park west phony company
waiting in front of the number doors
and selling their dreams at coffee bar bores.
And find that every street´s a dead end street.
And Broadway´s just the broadest dead end street.

The Tin Pan Alley pirats in suits
that are circling around in the manager´s pools.
And any minute when the sharks are gone
they brush their souls to get rid of
the curls, the knots and the curses.

The Chrysler clippers, Coney Island trippers
these phantoms of old bourgois ideals.
Holding on to those class-differences
as if they were part of an old romance.

Text: Gabriele Groll