You lads see me wash the glasses, wipe the floors,
Make the beds, Im the best of servants.
You can kindly throw me pennies and Ill thank you very much.
When you see me ragged and tattered in this dirty shit hotel,
You dont know in hell whos talking,
You still dont know in hell whos talking.
Yet one fine day there will be roars from the harbour
And youll ask, "what is all that screeching for ? "
And youll see me smiling as I dunk the glasses
And youll say, "whats she got to smile at for ? "
And the ship, eight sails shining,
Fifty-five cannons wide, sir,
Waits there at the quay.
You say, "work on, wipe the glasses, my girl."
And just slip me a dirty six-pence.
And your pennies will be taken, and your beds will be made,
(but I doubt if forty winks will come anybodys way)
And you still dont know in hell whos talking,
You still dont know in hell whos talking.
Still one fine day therell be a loud bang from the harbour,
And youll ask, "jesus christ, what was that bang ? "
And youll see me standing right behind the window,
And youll say, "why has she got the evil eye ? "
And the ship, eight sails shining,
Fifty-five cannons wide, sir,
Will be aimed at this town.
So then lads, its time for tears, no more laughs at the bar,
For the walls will be at your ankles.
And look out, lads, the town will be flat as the ground,
This dirty shit hotel will be spared wrack and ruin
And youll say, "who is the fancy bitch lives there ? "
Youll say, "who is the fancy bitch lives there ? "
Therell be rows of people running round the hotel
And youll ask, "why should they have spared this hovel ? "
And youll see me in the morning leaving lightly
And youll say, "that one, her , she lived there ? "
The same ship, eight sails shining,
Fifty-five cannons wide, sir,
Flies crossbones and skull.
In the midday sun a hundred men will step ashore
All tramping where shadows crawled.
Theyll lay their hands on men, hiding shit-scared behind doors
Lead them in chains here before this silent woman,
And theyll say, "well, which ones shall we kill ? "
Theyll say, "which ones shall we kill ? "
Come the dot of twelve, it will be still in the harbour,
When they ask me, "well, who is going to die ? "
And youll hear me whispering, oh, so sweetly, "all of them!"
And as the soft heads fall, Ill say, "hop-l!"
That same ship, eight sails shining,
Fifty-five cannons wide, sir,
Disappears with me.
The salomon song.
