Текст песни Nothing Important (Richard Dawson) с переводом

I am born by Caesarian section at 9:30 AM

In Princess Mary’s Maternity Hospital

On the 24th May, forty years ago today

Dangled by the ankle, smacked across the bum

Swaddled in a blanket howling like a wheel

My big brother Iain on his tiptoes hisses 'I don’t like him'

He’s Maradona, I’m Peter Beardsley, chasing a ball through the mud

Followed by the kitchen window bellowing through the fern:

'Boys! Dinner’s ready!'

Dad is tuning in the telly beyond a heaving mountain of spaghetti hoops

I am nothing

You are nothing

Nothing important

Death within a dream

Petrified on the back of a pedalo in the Balearic Sea off Alcudia

I can see the ghost of my uncle Derek waving to us from the beach

Gently drifting out of reach

The telephone receiver swinging by its cord

A glass of broken beer expanding on the lino

My mam slips into the coffin

A polaroid of his sweetheart

Clutching Good-Luck Bear I peer gingerly over the side

Press my nose up to the tide

And there behold a barracuda chewing on a chrysanthemum

And a family of clownfish hovering in the corpse’s hair

In the scullery of the cub-hut my clarinet falls

Into a sack of flour — a flurry of pins

Squashed into the leather handle

A crescent moon of sleeping fig-wasps

Drizzling my fingers with The Magic Sponge

Dad says 'we'll probably have to chop them off'

He collapses like a canvas tent on the floodlit astroturf

Rent by a fibula guide-rod poking a hole through his shin

There are teardrops in his moustache

Charging a flute of champagne

Down the aisle and out for a throw-in

A St. John’s ambulance careers between the sugary pillars of the wedding cake

A crystal spoon

A pewter tankard

These words inscribed upon the base:

«HAPPY RETIREMENT BEST GRANDDAD IN THE WORLD»

A Toby jug filled to the brim with curtain hooks

A sheepskin rug discoloured with tobacco smoke

Within it’s braids concealed a rank

Of plastic soldiers set to burst underfoot

Berwick in oils: a skiff on the swollen tweed

Cradling a false pearl

A ceramic seraph

With an ashtray for a brain

— and I don’t care about these things

Why do they remain so clear while the faces of my loved ones disappear?

A Rington’s plate

A forking hairline seam of superglue through the Black Gate

A digital photo-frame

Frozen on a blurry orange thumb

I don’t care about these things

Old karate trophies

I remember all these things

Thimbles and pesetas

I remember all these things

A roll of Woolworth’s price stickers

I can see all these things but

Where have all my people gone?

In the end it wasn’t meant to be

He was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen

He survived for seven days

Before he slipped away

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