They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
J'ai un peu la flemme de faire une rétrospective de la poésie britannique d'après-guerre –où Philip Larkin, mort en 1985, a apporté, je cite, «the drabness and ordinariness which seemed suddenly to afflict his countrymen, as Britain's glory ebbed, the economic situation worsened, and the sun set on empire». Mais ça peut se trouver dans le numéro 7 de la revue Aspen. Et si cela ne vous a pas convaincu de jeter un œil à cette revue publiée de 1965 à 1971, lisez cet article d'époque de Lou Reed dans son numéro 3 (The Pop Art issue), truffé de trucs réellement dingues.
