| New Times. |
| New Times. |
| New Times
|
| Good morning. |
| Good morning. |
| Good morning
|
| I’m the guard. |
| At one time
|
| This was rather pleasant
|
| The poets they still had to muse
|
| Over the classicism of clean shoes
|
| But who today still knows a button stick
|
| Well, that’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| The girls would lie down before us
|
| First one went dancing, then behind the bushes
|
| Today you have to run through twenty places
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| Get drunk on saccharin and methyl
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| And then you still don’t get them that far
|
| Well, that’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| Now take it easy there in the early morning
|
| Who arrives but the brethren from the press
|
| If somewhere there lies a cadaver
|
| Or something is foul in the state
|
| You can be sure that a writer is not far behind
|
| With his Excellency I only say:
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| Hands off the literature
|
| The laurel wreath one gets today
|
| Second hand so to speak
|
| From the old Empire’s stories
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| Sold underhand at the Alexanderplatz
|
| With all the wigs and costumes
|
| Twitching from the shoulder one is informed
|
| Well, that’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| That’s the new times
|
| New times. |
| New times. |
| New times |