Jerome Pradon - 07. Knives (Crime of passion) | Текст песни

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• Jerome Pradon
• 07. Knives (Crime of passion)

Just this morning the blade cutting into my bread,
Cutting into the butter, it made me afraid.
It was not quite the same as the evening before,
When it sliced through the bread, it seemed honest and sure.
Now it twisted and turned, all too quick in my hand
Slipping agile and sharp full of wicked demand.
Best beware stainless steel, don't be fooled or cajoled,
Throw it back to the devil who covets your soul.

I have always mistrusted the bright bevelled edge
Of the knife like a mirror reflecting the wretched existence I've led.
All my guilt has transformed
every innocent blade to a ravenous sword.
Steely knives have seized my heart,
Tears have left me torn apart
Torn apart
Torn apart

Silver scissors are lurking with needles and thread,
They conspire and whisper of torture and dread.
Close at hand in the kitchen, the cleavers are near,
Joining in with the icepick to shout, "We are here!"
And the Florentine dagger that opens my post
Plays at guillotine tricks full of swagger and boast.
Yes, and even the nail file, in league with the rest,
Cries out "Murder!" from deep in my medicine chest

Living with daggers drawn is no way to exist
For in spite of the danger my wishes persist
To be held and to hold, even though I can see
Hanging over my head the sword of Damocles
Steely knives have seized my heart,
Tears have left me torn apart
Torn apart
Torn apart

As for peace in the streets, is there anyone still
Who can hope to be saved and evade being killed?
On the boulevard the barber, his razor in hand,
In the alley the blade in the fist of the damned.
Look, no matter what kind, every knife leads a dance,
Hypnotizing, entrancing, they wait for their chance.
In the clinic the scalpel is flickering red,
At the butcher's the meatgrinder waits to be fed.
And the woodchopper's hatchet, the dressmaker's shears,
And the fireman's axe, and the fisherman's spear,
And a boy's pocket knife and a pawn's bayonette,
All are hungry and hoping for blood to be let.
And the scythe in the wheat and the plough in the earth,
The stiletto in the back and the dagger at work,
And the pitchfork that prods at the guilt ridden dead
Executioner's blade, yet one more rolling head.
Steely knives have seized my heart,
Tears have left me torn apart
Torn apart
Torn apart
Torn apart

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