Paroles et traduction Bap - Jojo

Jojo

Ich weiß nimieh wo, nur noch wie se do jing,
Die verbiesterte Ahl met dämm Hung ahn der Ling,
Zum Krüppel jemästet, wie en Karikatur,
Ne Jojo, dä belle kann, ahn ner Schnur,
Die die ahl Frau nit losslöht, op jarkeine Fall,
Ihr läuf keiner mieh fott, wie die andere all,
Wie dä Mann, wo ihr nur en Schachtel Feldposs vun blevv,
Die se usswendisch kann, ävver trotzdämm ophivv.
En Sütterlin steht do, wie schön se ens woor,
Vüür allem ihr Naas un ihr pechschwazze Hohr,
Wie die vun dä Zijeunerin övverm Koppeng,
Op dämm Ölbild, dat ihr ens ihr Doochter jeschenkt,
Die, die jetz joot verhieroot en Rüsselsheim livv,
Met zwei Enkel un jed Johr zum Muttertaach schriev,
Wie der Sohn, der sich Johr un Daach nimieh jemeld,
Nur dat Dier, sons kei Minsch hätt die Ahl op der Welt.
Oder dä, dä em Ahnzoch, su lang ich nur weiß,
Nahx " beim Büb " ahn der Thek steiht un unnohbar deit,
Dä nur sprich, wenn er sich jet ze drinke bestellt,
Och dä hatt sich dat all nit esu vüürjestellt,
Als er domohls aktiv en der ahle KP,
Noch beseelt vun der Machbarkeit singer Idee,
Der vun Freede, Gleichheit en Freiheit jekämpf hätt.
Jebraat hätt ihm dat nix, nur die Zick em KZ.
Donoh Strafbataillon ahn der vorderste Front,
Wo er övverjelaufe un doch nit verschont.
Ne sechs Johr lange Winter, Sibirien dann,
En e Bleibergwerk jottseidank nit ahn de Wand.
Dä hätt nie widder Fooß jepack, selden jelaach,
Sick′e zosinn moot, wie et nohm Kreech jing övver Naach:
Schnell et Parteibooch jewääßelt, wat nit ens schwer.
Die ahl Nazis, nit er, wooren lang widder wer.
Antoinette, die bürjerlich " Erika " heiß
Un jed Naach Eck Maternus un Mainzerstrooß steiht,
Bess zwei, drei vill Freier kumme nit mieh.
Dat verletz'se, et dunn nit nur ihr Kramfohdre wieh.
Jeht off stundelang hin un her, waad dat wer hällt,
Für ne Quicky öm Röcksetz se bruch halt dat Jeld,
Wenn och nimieh für Freddy, dä och leev sinn kunnt.
" Dat dä fott ess, obwohl er su ärsch op ihr stund!"
Hä, dä Big Spender un Heini, dä Doof,
Un Lisa, die Mösch, domohls leef et su joot.
En Schampanjer jebaad un met Nerz uffjedrüsch.
Hück Naach hällt bloß de Schmier, övverhührt, dat se lüsch.
Nä, kei Mitleid vun dänne, nit vun su en Pänz,
Der ihr Mutter se sinn künnt, nä wirklich, em Ähnz!
Dann ald levver dä Neid, dä se fröher jespürt,
övver dämm stund se drövver, dä hätt nie jestührt.

Jojo

I can't recall where, only how she walks there,
The embittered old woman with the shopping bag on her left,
Fattened to a cripple, like a caricature,
A Jojo, that can bark, on a leash,
That the old woman never lets go, under no circumstances,
Nobody runs away from her anymore, like all the others,
Like the man who only left her a box of field post,
That she knows by heart, but still keeps.
A Sütterlin script says how beautiful she once was,
Especially her nose and her pitch-black hair,
Like that of the gypsy woman above the bed,
On the oil painting that her daughter once gave her,
Who, now well married, lives in Rüsselsheim,
With two grandchildren and writes every year for Mother's Day,
Like the son, who hasn't reported for years,
Only the animal, otherwise the old woman would have no one in the world.
Or the one in the suit, for as long as I can remember,
Standing next to "the boy" at the bar, acting aloof,
Who only speaks when he orders something to drink,
He too hadn't imagined it all this way,
When he was once active in the old Communist Party,
Still inspired by the feasibility of his ideas,
Who had fought for freedom, equality, and liberty.
It brought him nothing, only time in the concentration camp.
Then penal battalion on the front lines,
Where he deserted and yet was not spared.
A six-year-long winter, then Siberia,
In a lead mine, thankfully not on the wall.
He never regained his footing, rarely laughed,
Had to watch how things changed overnight after the war:
Quickly changed his party membership card, which wasn't even difficult.
The old Nazis, not him, were back in power for a long time.
Antoinette, whose real name is "Erika",
And stands every night on the corner of Maternus and Mainzerstrasse,
At best, two or three decent clients don't come anymore.
It hurts her, not just her varicose veins.
Goes back and forth for hours, hoping someone will stop,
For a quickie behind the bushes, she just needs the money,
Even if it's no longer for Freddy, who could also be sweet.
"That he's gone, even though he was so crazy about her!"
Hey, the big spender and Heini, the fool,
And Lisa, the chick, things were going so well back then.
Bathed in champagne and dressed up in mink.
Tonight only the greaseball stops, ignoring her desire.
No, no pity from these guys, not from such a punk,
Who could be her son, really, in the end!
Then rather the envy she felt before,
She got over it, it never bothered her.