Текст песни Where The Hell's My Money? (Mojo Nixon) с переводом

Yeah, me and Skid Roper pull into town

Yeah, we pull into town, we gonna be layin' 'em down

Yeah, man, we go to the local record store

And they got our record out, sittin' real prominently on the shelf there

And we go, «Great googlie mooglie!»

Yeah, man, we go to the college radio station

And they say they been waitin' for us

All day long

All day long

All day long

So we do a little interview and then we go down to the rock 'n' roll club, man

And we do a sound check, you know

We be checkin' out all kind of sounds, we be doin'

We goin', «Hoo ha hee…»

Yeah

Yeah, man, and then the local band gets up on the stage

And they begin to rage

They begin to rock 'n' roll

They got the super soul

Goin' up through the beats

They started grabbin' their tallywhackers and they say

«Baby, baby, what’s on your mind?»

Well, the way the really do it is more like

«Baby, baby, what’s on your mind?»

Man, and the place was packed

I mean, wall to wall

I mean, there was like, wall to wall, ceiling to ceiling

You couldn’t get another person in there with a crowbar

I mean, the club owner was out there with a crowbar stickin' more people in

Yeah, that’s right, y’know, and they couldn’t fit a razor blade between these

people

They was all there waitin' to see Mojo Nixon and Skid Roper do the rock 'n'

roll thing

And we said, «Baby, we have come to do the rock 'n' roll thing»

And then we started

Oh, we started rockin'

Yeah, we started boppin'

We started a fornication nation

«Ah, Mojo and Skid, yeah»

So, man, after we were rockin' for about an hour or two hours

Encores, out the door, crowbar, maintaining a psychotic reaction and everything

Well, me and Skid Roper, it’s about 2:30

2:30 Sunday morning, and we say, «Hmm, we gotta get paid

We gotta get paid, now who’s in charge of this place, you know?»

So we’re lookin' around

We ask the doorman, the bartender, we ask 'em all and they say

«You have to talk to the owner»

So we go find the owner and he says

«Mojo, Mojo, I got your money, Mojo, I got your money

But, you know, I had to pay the doorman and the sound man

And I had to pay the light man

And you had three guests, Mojo

Three people on the guest list

So I figure that your money for the gig comes to

Seven dollars and forty-eight cents»

Seven dollars and forty-eight cents, huh?

You mean, uh, like, seven George Washington dollars

And two cents less than fifty cents

He said, «Yes, Mojo, that’s what I mean»

I says, «Hmmm…»

Right at this moment, I pull out a 1936 Colt .45 single-action service revolver

That my daddy used in the Big War

And I place the cold, steel barrel up against this slug’s head

And I yell

Where the hell’s my money

Where the hell’s my money

Yeah, right at this moment Skid Roper takes out his Otay-matia washboard

On a stick and winds up like Hava Najesus

And smacks the corrugated tin right across this pusbag’s face

Leavin' dents never to leave

And we both scream

Where the hell’s my money

Where the hell’s my money

Yeah, I cock the trigger on the revolver

And mister, Mr. Club Owner says, «Okay, Mojo, okay, Mojo

Um, I mean, last week we had The Floating Doo-Doo Balls in here

And, and they didn’t draw too many people and I don’t have too much money»

And I said, «Wait a minute»

I said, «If I want any shit outta you, I’ll squeeze your head, boy»

Yeah, so he gets his big mother lode of bills

I’m talkin' about big, dog-chokin' mother lode of bills

He starts peelin' off fives, ten, twenties, thirties

I say, «Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, thirties?

Where you get this thirty-dollar bill, man?

There ain’t no thirty-dollar bills with Bill Graham’s picture on it

What do you think I am, some kind of dummy?

What kind of fool are you, boy?»

So we get our percent of the money

Fifty percent of the door, five thousand peoples

We got about seven thousand dollars, not seven dollars

We start rantin' and ravin', we head out of town

In a '67 Ford Fairlane station wagon

And we gotta take off like Kyle Petty

Like Richard Petty

I’m talkin' about, like Wendell Scott

Like Pee Wee Roberts, yeah

And these two nubile, obviously-under-age, young women

Are hangin' on to the roof rack

And these two little Madonna wanna-bes are goin', «Woo…»

And the club owner is wipin' the poop out of his pants

And his ugly wife, I’m talkin' about butt-ugly, super butt-ugly

Butt-ugly super-zilla, that’s what I’m talkin' about

With the double-ought shells out of a 410 shotgun

Is firin' at our butts as we go off into the sunrise

And the wanna-be Madonnas

We figure out these wanna-be Madonnas

We figure out they must be undercover cops

So we take 'em to their Daddy’s house and they get little spanking

Yeah, a spanking, baby

I’ll rank ya

Yeah, so, me and Skid, man, we’re pullin' out of town

We’re pullin' out of the town, out on the interstate

We’re sittin' in the Ford wagon

And on the side of the road we see everybody that’s ever been done wrong

Everybody that’s ever been cheated

Everybody that’s ever been swindled

Everybody that’s ever been taken in by some sleazy, scumbag club owner

And they’re all standin' out there

And they’re standin' out there wavin' their hands in the air

And everybody’s saying

Where the hell’s my money

Where the hell’s my money

Where the hell’s my money, yeah

Where the hell’s my money, everybody

Where the hell’s my my my my money

Where the hell’s my money

Goddammit, where’s my money, man

I’m not gonna take seven dollars, you evil pig

You know, I wouldn’t piss in your mouth if your stomach was on fire

Hey, Skid

Where the hell’s my money