Poem
Leonard Nolens
Tell the children we’re no good 1
Tell the children we’re no good.Tell them that we make children at night
And next morning benignly trash them, tell
The son who plays up at table and sings,
Appeasing hunger with ditties, tell him
That we’ll empty his mouth of the music,
That we’ll drag him down with milk
And thrashings, hard-earned bread and exams.
Tell him his thirst will have to learn manners
From us pygmies, the fathers and mothers.
We call the tune, but make few demands.
© Translation: 2011, Paul Vincent
Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen 1
Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen 1
Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen.Zeg dat wij kinderen maken ’s nachts
Om ze ’s ochtends zachtmoedig te kraken, zeg
Aan de zoon als jij dwarsligt aan tafel en zingt
Om met liedjes zijn honger te stillen, zeg
Dat wij de muziek uit zijn mond zullen nemen,
Dat wij hem klein zullen krijgen met melk
En slaag, met zuurverdiend brood en examens.
Zeg dat zijn dorst de manieren moet leren
Van ons, een dwergvolk van vaders en moeders.
Wij hebben geen noten op onze zang.
© 2011, Leonard Nolens
From: Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen
Publisher: Em. Querido's Uitgeverij, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
From: Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen
Publisher: Em. Querido's Uitgeverij, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Leonard Nolens
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Tell the children we’re no good 1
Tell the children we’re no good.Tell them that we make children at night
And next morning benignly trash them, tell
The son who plays up at table and sings,
Appeasing hunger with ditties, tell him
That we’ll empty his mouth of the music,
That we’ll drag him down with milk
And thrashings, hard-earned bread and exams.
Tell him his thirst will have to learn manners
From us pygmies, the fathers and mothers.
We call the tune, but make few demands.
© 2011, Paul Vincent
From: Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen
From: Zeg aan de kinderen dat wij niet deugen
Tell the children we’re no good 1
Tell the children we’re no good.Tell them that we make children at night
And next morning benignly trash them, tell
The son who plays up at table and sings,
Appeasing hunger with ditties, tell him
That we’ll empty his mouth of the music,
That we’ll drag him down with milk
And thrashings, hard-earned bread and exams.
Tell him his thirst will have to learn manners
From us pygmies, the fathers and mothers.
We call the tune, but make few demands.
© 2011, Paul Vincent
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