Pirate Jenny

(albüm: 20th Century Blues - 1997)

You lads see me wash the glasses, wipe the floors
Make the beds, I'm the best of servants
You can kindly throw me pennies and I'll thank you very much
When you see me ragged and tattered in this dirty shit hotel
You don't know in hell who's talking
You still don't know in hell who's talking
Yet one fine day there will be roars from the harbour
And you'll ask, "What is all that screeching for?"
And you'll see me smiling as I dunk the glasses
And you'll say, "What's 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 anybody's way)
And you still don't know in hell who's talking
You still don't know in hell who's talking
Still one fine day there'll be a loud bang from the harbour
And you'll ask, "Jesus Christ, what was that bang?"
And you'll see me standing right behind the window
And you'll 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, it's 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 you'll say, "Who is the fancy bitch lives there?"
You'll say, "Who is the fancy bitch lives there?"
There'll be rows of people running round the hotel
And you'll ask, "Why should they have spared this hovel?"
And you'll see me in the morning leaving lightly
And you'll 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
They'll lay their hands on men, hiding shit-scared behind doors
Lead them in chains here before this silent woman
And they'll say, "Well, which ones shall we kill?"
They'll 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 you'll hear me whispering, oh, so sweetly, "All of them!"
And as the soft heads fall, I'll say, "Hop-là!"
That same ship, eight sails shining
Fifty-five cannons wide, Sir
Disappears with me