Текст песни Hildegard Lernt Fliegen - Seven Oaks

Several decades later, seven wicked scoundrels,
Rumble through the woodland, where the the rumor started,
That the itching, caused by surly branches
Was just a deception of some cranky dryads,
Which were hiding in the captivating haze of
Fiery gleaming, blazing lady’s slipper orchids,
And did not know, that if they had spoken
Out the rousing words of carefully kept secrets,
They would not have had to waltz with moody
Wood-root goblins, which were, after all,
Not liable
For the vexing riot, that had caused these
dryads,
To devise some vicious razzle-dazzle
Puzzling each and every intruder,
With the fuzzy notion of a spuriously
Itching ear.
What could it be, who’s in the plot?
Unleashing now all these odd vigors,
Through that fuzzy notion of a
Spuriously itching ear?
What could it be, who is in the plot?
What’s the clue?
There is a vaguely obscure inkling
Of the key:
Still they can not see who’s in there,
Since they only care to rumble,
They will only have to wink and to shake
off their past,
If they have to find the trace of all
those vanished dreams.
See how they fade.
We should never cast a doubt on,
The mutability of matters,
And they told you ’bout the way things could
might reappear.
With your eyes wide shut you finally will
catch sight of it.
See how they whiz through it.
What is the tale of these seven old oak trees?
Were they someday charmed by a ravishing beauty?
Could not stand the itching, would not bear the rage.
Should have scent the bedrock,
Changed by surprise. Run and hide!
Look!
They grew boughs on their head!