If the sons of company directors,
And judges' private daughters,
Had to got to school in a slum school,
Dumped by some joker in a damp back alley,
Had to herd into classrooms cramped with worry,
With a view onto slagheaps and stagnant pools,
Had to file through corridors grey with age,
And play in a crackpot concrete cage.
Buttons would be pressed,
Rules would be broken.
Strings would be pulled
And magic words spoken.
Invisible fingers would mould
Palaces of gold.
If prime ministers and advertising executives,
Royal personages and bank managers' wives
Had to live out their lives in dank rooms,
Blinded by smoke and the foul air of sewers.
Rot on the walls and rats in the cellars,
In rows of dumb houses like mouldering tombs.
Had to bring up their children and watch them grow
In a wasteland of dead streets where nothing will grow.
Buttons would be pressed,
Rules would be broken.
Strings would be pulled
And magic words spoken.
Invisible fingers would mould
Palaces of gold.
I'm not suggesting any kind of a plot,
Everyone knows there's not,
But you unborn millions might like to be warned
That if you don't want to be buried alive by slagheaps,
Pit-falls and damp walls and rat-traps and dead streets,
Arrange to be democratically born
The son of a company director
Or a judge's fine and private daughter.
And judges' private daughters,
Had to got to school in a slum school,
Dumped by some joker in a damp back alley,
Had to herd into classrooms cramped with worry,
With a view onto slagheaps and stagnant pools,
Had to file through corridors grey with age,
And play in a crackpot concrete cage.
Buttons would be pressed,
Rules would be broken.
Strings would be pulled
And magic words spoken.
Invisible fingers would mould
Palaces of gold.
If prime ministers and advertising executives,
Royal personages and bank managers' wives
Had to live out their lives in dank rooms,
Blinded by smoke and the foul air of sewers.
Rot on the walls and rats in the cellars,
In rows of dumb houses like mouldering tombs.
Had to bring up their children and watch them grow
In a wasteland of dead streets where nothing will grow.
Buttons would be pressed,
Rules would be broken.
Strings would be pulled
And magic words spoken.
Invisible fingers would mould
Palaces of gold.
I'm not suggesting any kind of a plot,
Everyone knows there's not,
But you unborn millions might like to be warned
That if you don't want to be buried alive by slagheaps,
Pit-falls and damp walls and rat-traps and dead streets,
Arrange to be democratically born
The son of a company director
Or a judge's fine and private daughter.
Contributed by Bernart - 2013/8/28 - 08:58
×
![]()
Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.
Parole e musica di Leon Rosselson
Nell’album intitolato “A Laugh, a Song, and a Hand-Grenade”, con Adrian Mitchell.
Una canzone ispirata all’autore da The Aberfan Coaltip Tragedy, un terribile disastro minerario avvenuto nel Galles nel 1966. Non ne furono vittime dei minatori, ma i bambini della scuola della cittadina mineraria di Aberfan investita da una gigantesca frana di detriti di lavorazione del carbone…
“Se toccasse ai figli dei banchieri, o dei manager, o dei magistrati di vivere in baracche pidocchiose, o di andare in scuole fatiscenti, o di giocare in strade fangose e luride, o di morire sepolti vivi sotto la frana di una miniera, se toccasse a loro allora le le cose cambierebbero molto in fretta… ma non tocca a loro, che vivono in palazzi dorati, tocca agli altri, ai figli del popolo, dei lavoratori. A loro consiglio di darsi da fare – democraticamente, civilmente, s’intende! - per nascere figli di ricchi e potenti…”