Paroles et traduction Bap - Chippendale Desch

Chippendale Desch

′Ne Hingerhoff, vun wääje "Roaring Twenties"!
Vier Pänz un sie kohm noch dozo.
Familiefotos, Opa 'm Sonndaachsanzoch,
Dä Grandseigneur, sick Johre arbeitslos.
En schlääschte Zick für Kirche usszomohle,
Jet andres hatt e′ leider nie jeliert.
Sie moht en off spät uss der Kneip heimholle,
Doch nie hätt sie sich für dä Ahl jeniert.

'Ne Schoss enn 'nem Kostüm, de Hoore halvlang,
′Ne Jung enn Landseruniform,
′Ne Püngel Breefe, jottweißwo uss Rußland,
Vun ihm, dä nie mieh heim noh Kölle kohm.
Un dann 'ne joode Kääl, wenn och ′ne ziemlich sture,
'Ne fließije, nit jraad ene Poet,
En Huhzick zwesche ussjebrannte Muhre:
"Mer muss sinn, dat et irj′ndwie wiggerjeht!"

Eva 'm Kommunionskleid
Un wie se met ′ner Prozession jeht,
Un Eva met 'nem Kinderwaare
Em sechste Johr nohm Kreech.
Posskaate vun der Riviera
Un Eva – zwei, drei Kilo schwerer –
Hinger der Thek enn ihrem Laade
Un ahn 'nem Chippendale Desch.
Dat he muss irj′ndwo em Tessin sinn
Un dat he wohr bestemmp em Westerwald.
Dä Klein, dä domohls brav ahn ihrer Hand jing,
Ess mettlerweile zehnmohl esu alt.
Se hätt ihm, wo se kunnt, de Stang jehahle,
Ejal, wie affjedrieht, se stund zo ihm.
Se hätt ahn ihn jejläuv, leet ihn nie falle:

"Loot en enn Rauh, dä Jung, dä bruuch kein Ling!"

Eva ′m Fasselohvend
Un enn 'nem Liejestohl wie schloofend,
Un he duudschick em Persianer
Un brungjebrannt em Ohvendleech.
Eva em Kiddel op der Eckbank
Un stolz vüür ihrem eezte Kühlschrank,

Dä Klein om Sofa met dä Jittar
Hinger ′nem Chippendale Desch.

Verwitwet wohr se zwanzig Johr lang,
Se wohr nit allzo off ahn singem Jraav.
Zom Traure wohr et Eva nit jeboore,
Dofür hätt et, em Ähnz, zo jähn jelaach.
"Woröm och?", saat et, "irjendwann muss Schluss sinn,

Om Friedhoff lieje mer noch lang jenooch."
Rääsch hattste, Eva, un wenn ich dat Leed sing,
Hoff ich, ihr hührt zosamme irj'ndwo zo:

Du ′n dä Ääzezäller
Un dä versoffne Kirchemöhler,
Dä Romeo, dä em Schnie krepiert ess –
Die Kääls verdraaren sich vielleich.
"Kaum Minsche sinn su, wie se schinge",
Saatste, un: Mer möht jönne künne.
Schon nett, dat du en mir vererv häss
Wie Opas Häng un dieh Jeseech:
Ich weed mich ahn dat Deil jewöhne
Un mich vun jetz ahn öm en kömmre,
Öm dinge stolze, staatse, schöne,
Monströse Chippendale Desch.

Chippendale Desk

A Hingerhoff, from the "Roaring Twenties"!
Four kids and she came along.
Family photos, grandpa in his Sunday suit,
The Grand Seigneur, unemployed for years.
The worst time to leave the church,
He had unfortunately never learned anything else.
She often had to bring him home late from the pub,
But she never felt ashamed of the old man.

A shot in a costume, hair half-long,
A boy in a Landser uniform,
A bundle of letters, God knows where from Russia,
From him, who never came back home to Cologne.
And then a good guy, even if a bit stubborn,
Hardworking, not exactly a poet,
A hut among burned-out ruins:
"We have to make sure that somehow it goes on!"

Eva in her communion dress
And as she walks with a procession,
And Eva with a baby carriage
In the sixth year after the war.
Postcards from the Riviera
And Eva - two, three kilos heavier -
Behind the counter in her shop
And at a Chippendale desk.
This must be somewhere in Ticino
And this was definitely in the Westerwald.
The little one, who obediently walked by her hand back then,
Is now ten times as old.
She held the bar for him wherever she could,
No matter how crazy, she stood by him.
She believed in him, never let him down:

"Let the boy run wild, he doesn't need a leash!"

Eva at Carnival
And asleep in a deck chair,
And here chic in a Persian lamb coat
And tanned in the evening light.
Eva in an apron on the corner bench
And proudly in front of her first refrigerator,

The little one on the sofa with the guitar
Behind a Chippendale desk.

She was widowed for twenty years,
She wasn't at his grave too often.
Eva was not born to mourn,
For that, in the end, she laughed too much.
"Why?", she said, "sometime it has to end,

We'll lie in the cemetery long enough."
You were right, Eva, and when I sing this song,
I hope you're listening somewhere together:

You and the bean counter
And the drunken church miller,
The Romeo who died in the snow –
The guys might get along.
"Hardly any people are the way they seem",
You said, and: We should be able to forgive.
It's nice that you passed it on to me
Like grandpa's limp and your way of looking at things:
I will get used to this thing
And take care of it from now on,
Of your proud, stately, beautiful,
Monstrous Chippendale desk.