Song parody of
The Golden Age (live at Bad Bonn, Düdingen, May 2016)
by Merz
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A man got into the carriage and began
To play on a fiddle made apparently of an old blacking-box
The sounds filled me with the strangest emotion
I seemed to hear a voice of lamentation out of The Golden Age
It told me that we are imperfect, incomplete, and no more like a beautiful woven web
But like a bundle of cords knotted together and flung into a corner
It said that the world was once all perfect and kindly
And that still the kindly and perfect world existed
But buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of earth
The more innocent of the spirits dwelt within it, and lamented over our fallen world
In the lamentation of the wind-tossed reeds
In the song of the birds, in the moan of the waves
And in the sweet cry of the fiddle
It said that with us the beautiful are not clever and the clever are not beautiful
And that the best of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity
Or by a pin-prick out of sad recollection
And that the fiddle must ever lament about it all
It said that if only they who live in The Golden Age could die we might be happy
For the sad voices would be still
But alas! alas! they must sing and we must weep until the Eternal gates swing open
A man got into the carriage and began
To play on a fiddle made apparently of an old blacking-box
The sounds filled me with the strangest emotion
I seemed to hear a voice of lamentation out of The Golden Age
It told me that we are imperfect, incomplete, and no more like a beautiful woven web
But like a bundle of cords knotted together and flung into a corner
It said that the world was once all perfect and kindly
And that still the kindly and perfect world existed
But buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of earth
The more innocent of the spirits dwelt within it, and lamented over our fallen world
In the lamentation of the wind-tossed reeds
In the song of the birds, in the moan of the waves
And in the sweet cry of the fiddle
It said that with us the beautiful are not clever and the clever are not beautiful
And that the best of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity
Or by a pin-prick out of sad recollection
And that the fiddle must ever lament about it all
It said that if only they who live in The Golden Age could die we might be happy
For the sad voices would be still
But alas! alas! they must sing and we must weep until the Eternal gates swing open
