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作词 : Jack Kerouac |
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作曲 : Jack Kerouac |
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…… |
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There was a little alley in San Francisco, |
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back of the Southern Pacific station at Third and Townsend. |
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In redbrick of drowsy lazy afternoons with everybody at work in offices. |
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In the air you feel the impending rush of their commuter frenzy, |
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as soon they’ll be charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings. |
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on foot and in buses, |
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and all well-dressed thru workingman Frisco of walkup truck drivers, |
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and even the poor grime-bemarked Third Street of lost bums, |
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even Negros so hopeless and long left East, |
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and meanings of responsibility and try. |
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That now all they do is stand there spitting in the broken glass, |
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sometimes fifty in one afternoon against one wall at Third and Howard. |
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And here’s all these Millbrae and SanCarlos neat-necktied producers, |
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and commuters of America, and Steel civilization, |
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rushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins, |
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not even enough time to be disdainful. |
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They’ve got to catch 130, 132, 134, 136 all the way up to 146 |
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till the time of evening supper in homes of therailroad earth. |
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When high in the sky the magic stars ride above |
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the following hotshot freight trains. |
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It’s all in California. |
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It’s all a sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sun hot meditation in my jeans |
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with head on handkerchief on brakeman’s lantern or (if not working) on book. |
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I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity, |
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And feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me, |
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And I have insane conversations with Negroes in second-story windows above, |
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and everything is pouring in. |
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The switching moves of boxcars in that little alley, |
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which is so much like the alleys of Lowell, |
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and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains. |
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But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above the little S.P. alley, |
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puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of Marin |
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to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break your heart. |
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It was the fantastic drowse and drum hum of lum mum afternoon nathin’ to do. |
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Ole Frisco with end of land sadness. |
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The people--the alley full of trucks and cars of businesses nearabouts. |
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And nobody knew or far from cared |
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who I was all my life three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O opened up, |
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And at last belonged to me in Great America. |
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Now it's night in Third Street, |
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the keen little neons and also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe flops, |
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With dark ruined shadows moving back of tom yellow shades |
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like a degenerate China with no money. |
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The cats in Annie's Alley, |
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the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with darkness. |
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Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old hotel roofs, |
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And blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior, |
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The grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth by tooth. |
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The reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak, chair and slantboards |
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and old faces looking up over rimless spectacles bought in some |
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West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool England pawnshop long before I was born. |
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And across rains they've come to the end of the land sadness |
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end of the world gladness, |
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All you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually, and burn again. |
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But I'm walking and one night, |
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a bum fell into the hole of the construction job |
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where they're tearing a sewer by day, |
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The husky Pacific & Electric youths in torn jeans who work there often I think of |
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going up to some of them like say blond ones with wild hair and tom shirts and say: |
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"You oughta apply for the railroad it's much easier work, |
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you don't stand around the street all day and you get much more pay." |
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But this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick out, |
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a British MG also driven by some eccentric once backed into the hole. |
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And as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon local to Hollister out |
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of San Jose miles away across verdurous fields of prune and juice joy, |
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here's this British MG backed and legs up wheels up into a pit, |
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and bums and cops standing around right outside the coffee shop. |
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It was the way they fenced it. |
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But he never had the nerve to do it due to the fact |
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that he had no money and nowhere to go， |
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O his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his sister was dead |
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and O his where about was dead was dead. |
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But and then at that time also I lay in my room on long Saturday afternoons |
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listening to Jumpin' George, with my fifth of tokay no tea, |
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and just under the sheets laughed to hear the crazy music: |
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"Mama, he treats your daughter mean." |
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"Mama, Papa, and don't you come in here I'll kill you." etc. |
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Getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous, |
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knowing about the Negro the essential American, |
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out there always finding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street, |
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and not in abstract morality. |
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And even when he has a church, |
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you see the pastor out front bowing to the ladies, |
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on the make you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon |
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sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying: "Why yes mam, |
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but de gospel do say that man was born of woman's womb*." |
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And no, and so by that time, |
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I come crawling out of my warmsack and hit the street, |
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when I see the railroad ain't gonna call me till 5 AM Sunday morning, |
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probably for a local out of Bay Shore. |
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In fact, always for a local out of Bay Shore. |
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And I go to the wailbar of all the wildbars in the world, |
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the one and only Third-and-Howard. |
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And there I go in and drink with the madmen, and if I get drunk I git. |
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The girl who come up to me in there the night, I was there with Al Buckle |
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and said to me: "You wanta play with me tonight Jim?" |
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And I didn't think...I had enough money. |
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And later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said: |
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"How do you know she wanted money always take the chance, |
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that she might be out just for love or just out for love, |
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you know what I mean man don't be a sucker." |
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She was a goodlooking doll, |
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and she said: "How would you like to oolyakoo with me mon?" |
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And I stood there, like a jerk. |
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In fact, bought drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club. |
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I was hit by the proprietor the band breaking up the fight before, |
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I had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didn't do anyway. |
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And out on the street I tried to rush back in, |
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but they had locked the door, |
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and were looking at me through the forbidden glass in the door, |
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with faces like undersea. |
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I should have played with her |
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shulululululululululukadooky.? |
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heng... |
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… |
