Afgelopen woensdag is Richard oftewel Kinky Friedman overleden, de joodse in het algemeen satirische countryzanger (stel je voor: zijn begeleidingsgroep heette The Texas Jewboys).
Deze hebben we al eens gehad, zijn wellicht bekendste:
They ain’t making Jews like Jesus anymore
De Okie from Muskogie wordt een Asshole from El Paso:
We don’t have no love-ins in El Paso
We don’t go to porno picture shows
We don’t swap our wives with our neighbors
And we keep our kids away from Mexico
And I’m proud to be an asshole from El Paso
A place where sweet young virgins are deflowered
You walk down the street knee-deep in tacos
Ta-ta-ta-tacos
And the wetbacks still get twenty cents an hour
We don’t wipe our asses on Old Glory
God and Lone Star beer are things we trust
We keep our women virgins till they’re married
So hoes and sheep is good enough for us
And I’m proud to be an asshole from El Paso
A place where sweet young virgins are deflowered
You walk down the street knee-deep in tacos
Ta-ta-ta-tacos
And the wetbacks still get twenty cents an hour
I’m proud to be an asshole from El Paso
A place where sweet young virgins are deflowered
You walk down that street knee-deep in tacos
Ta-ta-ta-tacos
And the wetbacks still get twenty cents an hour
Zonder bittere ironie, Peter Lafarge’s Ballad of Ira Hayes:
Gather round me people and a story I will tell
‘Bout a brave young Indian lad, you should remember well,
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
Ira’s folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
But when war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man’s greed.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won’t answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, they battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised,
Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won’t answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But he’s just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
And nobody cared what Ira did and when do the Indians dance.
Well, Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like you’d throw a dog a bone.
And Ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land he’d fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won’t answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Zou hij de Country Hall of Fame halen?
Hij ruste in vrede.
– Uitgelichte afbeelding: CC BY 2.0
