A Nils Ferlin classic (and a Sven-Bertil Taube one too!)

Couplet

Dedicated to Victor Arendorff, Högalid

In Arendorff’s day

skies were vast, never grey,

with the stars almost touching your hat.

People laughed til they dropped;

if at night you got copped

there was nothing so special in that.

And high spirits were there for the telling,

though a barrel made do for a dwelling.

And you starved and you froze

but you won by a nose.

There was nothing so special in that.

But now life is plain hard

in both street or backyard

in a pub or café or small flat.

You sit quiet as can be,

like a bust or a tree:

can you see something special in that?

No, in Arendorff’s day you breathed freely,

mixed with barons and counts ten times yearly.

If you spoke like a lout

well, you soon got thrown out:

There was nothing so special in that.

Times were quite debonair,

but with sleek head of hair

social levelling came in to bat.

We became, hardly odd,

just like peas in a pod.

Can you see something special in that?

People pay all their taxes, are civil,

but all recklessness shun like the devil.

Now life’s zest has been quashed

like a hat that’s been squashed.

I see nothing so special in that.

Yes, you live without pause

off the body that’s yours

and then whoosh, one-two-three, that was that.

And in some makeshift dray

you’re then carted away.

There is nothing so special in that.

Should a bird feel the urge to start trilling

at your passing, t’would be almost thrilling.

Though the vicar’s no bird,

mumbles hardly a word,

there is nothing so special in that.