MONDAY, MAY 2, 2011
Brunhilde Schmidt - the ballad
(Around the early nineteen eighties I met a young woman in Frankfurt a.m. who refused to be controlled by the groups in the communal/occupied houses where I stayed during my visits to that city. As a result, I wrote the following ballad which is dedicated to her and all of those who refuse to be controlled by the significant others.)
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Brunhilde was a girl
A very lonely girl
The village of her childhood
Already very small
Reminds her of a jail
And pushes to escape
Her mother is too strict
Her father is long gone
Brunhilde would prefer
To have a better choice
One day she leaves the land
Her pretty square land
A suitcase in her hand
In Frankfurt she arrives
Her braided hair shining
Under a cloudy sky
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
Unable to realize
Her world falls apart
The buildings are so tall
The people are so fast
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
She doesn’t realize
Her feet already marching
To get some lesbian rights
The boys are being so nice
The girls so sisterly
Brunhilde is very happy
Under her city crowd
They offer her a room
The house is occupied
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
Unable to realize
She is already cooking
For the entire pack
They take her everywhere
“Brunhilde let’s go there”
“Brunhilde let’s come back”
Brunhilde is getting tired
Of following the pack
One day she leaves the house
The full of conscience house
A suitcase in her hand
She goes to a cafe
The future in her hands
Brunhilde contemplates
In front of a trinkhalle
A foreigner she meets
As tall and dark and handsome
She wishes him to be
A guest worker he is
He talks about the west
He cries about the east
They dream of the casbah
They dream of magic rugs
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
She doesn’t realize
Eastern bells already singing
Around Teutonic feet
One day he leaves the house
The pretty lovely house
Brunhilde gets upset
He never will be back
She goes to the police
The papers to fill out
The ballad about the worker
Begins on the tv
“The worker, our guest
Was killed by a skin head”
(Frankfurt a.m., early 1980s)
---------------------------------
Brunhilde was a girl
A very lonely girl
The village of her childhood
Already very small
Reminds her of a jail
And pushes to escape
Her mother is too strict
Her father is long gone
Brunhilde would prefer
To have a better choice
One day she leaves the land
Her pretty square land
A suitcase in her hand
In Frankfurt she arrives
Her braided hair shining
Under a cloudy sky
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
Unable to realize
Her world falls apart
The buildings are so tall
The people are so fast
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
She doesn’t realize
Her feet already marching
To get some lesbian rights
The boys are being so nice
The girls so sisterly
Brunhilde is very happy
Under her city crowd
They offer her a room
The house is occupied
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
Unable to realize
She is already cooking
For the entire pack
They take her everywhere
“Brunhilde let’s go there”
“Brunhilde let’s come back”
Brunhilde is getting tired
Of following the pack
One day she leaves the house
The full of conscience house
A suitcase in her hand
She goes to a cafe
The future in her hands
Brunhilde contemplates
In front of a trinkhalle
A foreigner she meets
As tall and dark and handsome
She wishes him to be
A guest worker he is
He talks about the west
He cries about the east
They dream of the casbah
They dream of magic rugs
Brunhilde is overwhelmed
She doesn’t realize
Eastern bells already singing
Around Teutonic feet
One day he leaves the house
The pretty lovely house
Brunhilde gets upset
He never will be back
She goes to the police
The papers to fill out
The ballad about the worker
Begins on the tv
“The worker, our guest
Was killed by a skin head”
(Frankfurt a.m., early 1980s)
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