Da Poet, 2007 | Skønt den såkaldt globaliserede verden skulle foregive at gøre os mere udadvendte, udviske nationale skillelinjer og markere den liberale kapitalismes sejrsgang i verden, ses det med al ønskelig tydelighed, at den sande kunst hverken stammer fra den (liberale eller kommunistiske) materialistiske pengeideologis lejr eller fra den ugudelige menneskedyrkelses overdrev; nej, råber verdenskunsten med Da Poet som talerør: Fra den fædrene muld lyder en urovækkende rumlen, og denne mumlen får mund og mæle i dette smukke digt om modernismens dekadence og snarlige undergang for egen samt andres hånd.
The streets of Paris
In Paris there are hookers to meet
You wanna give them a taste of your meat
They lick, they scream, they bite and do no harm
You pay them in bigots and not Euros (with your arm).
Paris, Paris, you old bird’s foot trefoil
In Paris you eat and dance all night
Only to wake up to the noise of conventionalism
There are some nice hookers in Paris too, did I mention?
Paris is like a nest full of eggs
Always someone newish trying to break through
So progressive and yet so horny
That hooker is a Jewess, I noticed.
Paris is ever so nonpareil
Expensive food and vomit all over the place
And yet you need one thing.
The message is spread around the city
In the streets of Paris people run
Heathenish you consider them to be
But they only run because a new hooker’s bar is open.
Paris, Paris, when will you learn?
Life isn’t all hookers and dancing
There’s more to it – what about liquor?
Yeah, that’s more like it, you Victorian whore.
The people of Paris are all hookers in some way
And they earn from it this very afternoon
The Frankish has always been a people of litter
They eat this and consume roamers.
All that talk made you horny
So you travel the long distance of a few feet
To meet your beloved hooker, Jacques
Only to find out that she has a penis.