JETHRO TULL - WARCHILD (1974)
 
Ian Anderson - Flauta, guitarra acústica, saxofones, voces
Barriemore Barlow - Percusión
Martin Barre - Guitarra eléctrica y española
John Evan - Piano, órgano, sintetizadores, piano acordión
Jeffrey Hammond - Bajo

 

Lista de Temas:
WarChild
Queen and Country
Ladies
Back-Door Angels
SeaLion
Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day
Bungle In The Jungle
Only Solitaire
The Third Hoorah
Two Fingers
  

The wind is on the river
and the tide has turned too late,
so we're sailing for another shore
where some other ladies wait.
To throw us silken whispers,
catch us by the anchor chains,
but we all laugh so politely
and we sail on just the same.

For Queen and Country in the long dying day,
And it's been this way for five long years,
since we signed our souls away.

We bring back gold and ivory,
rings of diamonds, strings of pearls,
make presents to the government
so they can have their social whirl.

With Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years
since we signed our souls away.

For Queen and Country in the long dying day,
And it's been this way for five long years,
since we signed our souls away.

They build schools and they build factories,
with the spoils of battles won.
And we remain their pretty sailor boys,
hold our heads up to the gun.

Of Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years
since we signed our souls away.

To Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years
since we signed our souls away.
 

Ladies of leisure,
with their eyes on the back roads.
All looking for strangers,
to whom they extend welcomes
with a smile and a glimpse of pink knees and elbows;
Of satin and velvet.
Good ladies, good fortune.
Ladies. Ladies. Ladies.

They sing of their heroes: of solitary soldiers,
Invested in good health and manner most charming.
Whose favors are numbered
(none the less well intended)
By hours in a minute;
by those ladies who bless them.
Ladies. Ladies.
 

In and out of the front door,
ran twelve back-door angels.
Their hair was a golden-brown,
they didn't see me wink my eye.
'Tis said they put we men to sleep
with just a whisper,
And touch the heads of dying dogs
and make them linger.
They carry their candles high,
and they light the dark hours.
And sweep all the country clean
with pressed and scented wild-flowers.

They grow all their roses red,
and paint our skies blue,
drop one penny in every second bowl,
make half the beggars lose.

Why do the faithful have such a will
to believe in something?
And call it the name they choose,
having chosen nothing.

Think I'll sit down and invent some fool,
some Grand Court Jester.
And next time the die is cast,
he'll throw a six or two.
In and out of the back-door,
ran one front-door angel.
Her hair was a golden-brown;
she smiled, and I think she winked her eye.

Over the mountains, and under the sky,
riding dirty gray horses, go you and I.
Mating with chance, copulating with mirth,
the sad-glad paymasters (for what it's worth).
The ice-cream castles are refrigerated;
the super-marketeers are on parade.
There's a golden handshake hanging round your neck,
as you light your cigarette on the burning deck.

And you balance your world
on the tip of your nose
like a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.

You wear a shiny skin and a funny hat;
the Almighty Animal Trainer lets it go at that.
You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer's gun,
with you whiskers melting in the noon-day sun.
You flip and you flop under the Big White Top
where the long-legged ring-mistress starts and stops.
But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin
as the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin.

But you balance your world
on the tip of your nose,
you're a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.

Just a trace of pride upon our fixed grins,
for there is no business like the show we're in.
There is no reason, no rhyme, no right to leave
the circus 'til we've said good-night.
The same performance, in the same old way;
it's the same old story to this Passion Play.
So we'll shoot the moon,
and hope to call the tune,
and make no pin cushion of this big balloon.

Look how we balance the world
on the tips of our noses,
like SeaLions with a ball, at the carnival.

Meanwhile back in the year One,
when you belonged to no-one,
you didn't stand a chance, son,
if your pants were undone.
'Cause you were bred for humanity
and sold to society.
One day you'll wake up in the Present Day,
a million generations removed from expectations
of being who you really want to be.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.

So as you push off from the shore,
won't you turn your head once more,
and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
will live just one more day,
to do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
spinning in your emptiness,
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign that the Universal
Mind has written you into the Passion Play.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.

And as you cross the Circle Line,
well, the ice-wall creaks behind
you're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly
in the corner of your eye,
shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling
that the story's too damn real
and in the present tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage,
and it seems like you're the only person
sitting in the audience?
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
Skating away, skating away, skating away...
 

Walking through forests
of palm tree apartments,
scoff at the monkeys
who live in their dark tents.
Down by the waterhole,
drunk every Friday,
eating their nuts,
saving their raisins for Sunday.
Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows,
they're fast but they're lazy,
and sep in green meadows.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle,
well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.

Just say a word and the boys will be right there,
with claws at your back
to send a chill through the night air.
Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?

Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.
I'll write on your tombstone, "I thank you for dinner.''
This game that we animals play is a winner.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle,
well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.

The rivers are full of crocodile nasties,
and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
He's a lover of life but a player of pawns,
yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn
to light up His Jungle as play is resumed.
The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.

Well, let's bungle in the jungle,
well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.
Yes, let's bungle in the jungle,
well, that's all right by me, yes.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree. 
 

Brain-storming, habit-forming,
battle-warning, weary
Winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines.
The critics falling over to tell themselves he's boring,
and really not an awful lot of fun.
Well, who the hell can he be
when he's never had V.D.,
and he doesn't even sit on toilet seats?

Court-jesting, never-resting, he must be very cunning
to assume an air of dignity,
and bless us all with his oratory prowess,
his lame-brained antics, and his jumping in the air.
And every night his act's the same and so
it must be all a game of chess he's playing...
"But you're wrong, Steve.
You see, it's only solitaire.''
 

Hoorah!
WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?

When your back's to the wall,
and your luck is your all,
then side with whoever you may.
Seek that which within lies waiting to begin
the fight of your life that is everyday.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.

WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?

WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away,
sweet child, how do you do today?

In the heart of your heart,
there's the tiniest part of an urge to live to the death,
with a sword on your hip and a cry on your lips
to strike life in the inner child's breast.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.

WarChild, dance the days and nights away.
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away.
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away.
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away.
sweet child, how do you do today?
  

I'll see you at the Weighing-In,
when your life's sum-total's made.

I'll see you at the Weighing-In,
when your life's sum-total's made.
And you set your wealth in Goodly deeds
against the sins you've laid.

And you place your final burden
on your hard-pressed next of kin.
Send the chamber-pot back down
the line to be filled up again.

And the hard-headed miracle worker
who bathes his hands in blood,
will welcome you to the final "nod"
and cover you with mud.
And he'll say, "You really should make the deal,''
as he offers round the hat.
"Well, you'd better lick two fingers clean,
He'll thank you all for that.''

As you slip on the greasy platform,
and you land upon your back,
you make a wish and you wipe
your nose upon the railway track.
While the high-strung locomotive,
with furnace burning bright, lumbers on.
You wave goodbye, and the sparks fade into night.
Yeah...

And as you join the Good Ship Earth,
and you mingle with the dust,
you'd better leave your underpants
with someone you can trust.
And when the Old Man with the telescope
cuts the final strand,
you'd better lick two fingers clean,
before you shake his hand.