Jerome Pradon - 06 Weidmann (Crime of passion) | Текст песни

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• Jerome Pradon
• 06 Weidmann (Crime of passion)

You whose slow breathing moves your breast to rise and fall
You who sleeps sweetly deep within your peaceful room
Why can't you sense, beneath the paper on the wall
Forgotten faces of assassins darkly brood?
On the old newspaper wedged in the window frame
Lining the closet shelves and in the fireplace
Lighting the fire that will swallow up their names
Aren't you afraid to catch a glimpse of Weidmann's face?
Can't you tell from the creases in their sharp pressed suits
There's much more to these killers than the stories tell
When the police were running hotly in pursuit
Those kings of thieves knew how to hide their tracks too well.
For their eyes were much too soft
And their wavy hair was oiled slick
Their fedoras were brushed off
And their pinkie rings were too big
They kept order on the streets
Judgement was quick and efficient
Illustrating the mob scene
For the new special edition
They could always quite outrage
Journalists who loved sensation
And who wrote on the front page
Of psychotic deviation.
I who never could stomach
So-called honest people like them
Find criminals poetic
I prefer someone like Weidmann
Like Jean Genet dreaming within his prison cell
I also cut out Weidman's blue jawed baby face
Stifling my sobs, I can imagine all too well
To think the exploits of this warrior once took place.
Beside the stage door, I am waiting in his car
To greet the nude dancer he's chosen for the night.
I'll follow on the trail of his pallid silk scarf
From the bar to the villa, keeping them in sight.
The dawn breaks on a bleak abandoned city lot
The only traces of the dancer to be found
Are shreds of flesh, which somehow seem to have been caught
In shreds of ladder-proof black stockings on the ground.
But the velvet eyed monster
Isn't there to be discovered
And the very best rumours
Cannot help betray his cover
There he is near the water
By a fishermen's market
Is he there throwing flowers
To the late dearly departed
Or has he returned back to
His beloved old mother?
Waiting patiently for him
To come and tell her that he loves her
He was always a good boy
According to the neighbours
Mother's little pride and joy
Always willing to do favours.
A note is missing to make my story complete
It's just as well, this way I don't have to believe
This wildcat ends up in the hands of the police
Confessing in exchange for sandwiches and tea
I will not tremble like those upper-class ladies
Whose blond permanent waves stand suddenly on end
When on the evening news they can't believe they see
The enterprising dancer of their latest one-night stand
If I could only have a seat by the window
That overlooks the shady Execution Square
To greet the evil hour when pink just barely shows
The hour of final cigarettes and final prayers
Then his eyes that were too soft
Suddenly are filled with terror
See the blade waiting aloft
Pitiless, his neck is severed
It's the hour when most men
Taking their leave of the party
Sure that justice has been done
Are self-satisfied and hearty
It's the hour when someone
Bravely daring all the guards would
In ecstatic necrophilia
Dip his handkerchief in the blood
It's the hour I let go
Give in to my feverish daydreams
And admit that my hero
Is named Weidmann, Eugene

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