Bonnie & Clyde

Buen día amigos/as.
Hoy está nublado, día gris y llueve de a ratos ^_^.  Nada mejor que publicar en el café mientras tomo un te verde (costumbre).
Por esas casualidades producto de las causalidades (buscar la historia de Bonnie y Clyde) fui a parar con dos poemas escritos por la mismísima Bonnie Elizabeth Parker. 

Dejando de lado las vueltas y revueltas del mito y poniendo énfasis en la romantización llevada a cabo en torno a esta mítica pareja de ladrones (me atrevería a decir "la más famosa de la historia") procedo a exponer los poemas que encontré. 
Aclaro que no los traduje por "miedo" a que se pierda el sentido.

The Trails End ó The Story of Bonnie and Clyde by Bonnie Parker

You’ve read the story of Jesse James

of how he lived and died.

If you’re still in need;

of something to read,

here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang

I’m sure you all have read.

how they rob and steal;

and those who squeal,

are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;

they’re not as ruthless as that.

their nature is raw;

they hate all the law,

the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers

they say they are heartless and mean.

But I say this with pride

that I once knew Clyde,

when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;

kept taking him down,

and locking him up in a cell.

Till he said to me;

“I’ll never be free,

so I’ll meet a few of them in hell”

The road was so dimly lighted

there were no highway signs to guide.

But they made up their minds;

if all roads were blind,

they wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer

sometimes you can hardly see.

But it’s fight man to man

and do all you can,

for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered

from weariness some people have died.

But take it all in all;

our troubles are small,

till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas

and they have no clue or guide.

If they can’t find a fiend,

they just wipe their slate clean

and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America

not accredited to the Barrow mob.

They had no hand;

in the kidnap demand,

nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;

“I wish old Clyde would get jumped.

In these awfull hard times;

we’d make a few dimes,

if five or six cops would get bumped”

The police haven’t got the report yet

but Clyde called me up today.

He said,”Don’t start any fights;

we aren’t working nights,

we’re joining the NRA.”

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct

is known as the Great Divide.

Where the women are kin;

and the men are men,

and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens

and rent them a nice little flat.

About the third night;

they’re invited to fight,

by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate

they know that the law always wins.

They’ve been shot at before;

but they do not ignore,

that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together

they’ll bury them side by side.

To few it’ll be grief,

to the law a relief

but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

Suicide Sal by Bonnie Parker
  

We each of us have a good "alibi"

For being down here in the "joint;"

But few of them really are justified

If you get right down to the point.

You've heard of a woman's glory

Being spent on a "downright cur,"

Still you can't always judge the story

As true, being told by her.

As long as I've stayed on this "island,"

And heard "confidence tales" from each "gal,"

Only one seemed interesting and truthful ---

The story of "Suicide Sal."

Now "Sal" was a gal of rare beauty,

Though her features were coarse and tough;

She never once faltered from duty

To play on the "up and up."

"Sal" told me this take on the evening

Before she was turned out "free,"

And I'll do my best to relate it

Just as she told it to me:

I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;

Not treated like Helen of Troy;

I was taught that "rods are rulers"

And "ranked" as a greasy cowboy.

Then I left my old home for the city

To play in its mad dizzy whirl,

Not knowing how little pity

It holds for a country girl.

There I fell for "the line" of a "henchman,"

A "professional killer" from "Chi;"

I couldn't help loving him madly;

For him even now I would die.

One year we were desperately happy;

Our "ill gotten gains" we spent free;

I was taught the ways of the "underworld;"

Jack was just like a "god" to me.

I got on the "F.B.A." payroll

To get the "inside lay" of the "job;"

The bank was "turning big money!"

It looked like a "cinch" for the "mob."

Eighty grand without even a "rumble"-

Jack was the last with the "loot" in the door,

When the"teller" dead-aimed a revolver

From where they forced him to the floor.

I knew I had only a moment -

He would surely get Jack as he ran;

So I "staged a ""big fade out" beside him

And knocked the forty-five out of his hand.

They "rapped me down big" at the station,

And informed me that I'd get the blame

For the "dramatic stunt" pulled on the "teller"

Looked to them too much like a "game."

The "police" called it a "frame-up,"

Said it was an "inside job,"

But I steadily denied any knowledge

Or dealings with "underworld mobs,"

The "gang" hired a couple of lawyers,

The best "fixers" in any man's town,

But it takes more than lawyers and money

When Uncle Sam starts "shaking you down."

I was charged as a "scion of gangland"

And tried for my wages of sin;

The "dirty dozen" found me guilty -

From five to fifty years in the pen.

I took the "rap" like good people,

And never one "squawk" did I make.

Jack "dropped himself"on the promise

That we make a "sensational break."

Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story,

Five years have gone over my head

Without even so much as a letter -

At first I thought he was dead.

But not long ago I discovered

From a gal in the joint named Lyle,

That Jack and he "moll" had "got over"

And were living in true "gangster style."

If he had returned to me sometime,

Though he hadn't a cent to give,

I'd forget all this hell that he's caused me,

And love him as long as I live.

But there's no chance of his ever coming,

For he and his moll have no fears

But that I will die in prison,

Or "flatten" this fifty years.

Tomorrow I'll be on the "outside"

And I'll "drop myself" on it today:

I'll "bump 'em" if they give me the "hotsquat"

On this island out here in the bay …

The iron doors swung wide next morning

For a gruesome woman of waste,

Who at last had a chance to "fix it."

Murder showed in her cynical face.

Not long ago I read in the paper

That a gal on the East Side got "hot,"

And when the smoke finally retreated,

Two of gangdom were found "on the spot."

It related the colorful story

Of a "jilted gangster gal."

Two days later, a "sub-gun" ended

The story of "Suicide Sal."

 "As the flowers are all made sweeter
by the sunshine and the dew,
So this old world is made brighter
by the lives of folks like you"

Bonnie

Es muy interesante la historia de este dúo, les recomiendo su lectura (quizás, a modo anecdótico). Aclaro que no pretendí a través de este sencillo mensaje "aplaudir" a un par de ladrones, sino simplemente mostrar otra cara de la moneda (realidad que muchas veces los medios, los prejuicios u otros acasos no nos dejan/permiten ver).

Saludos lectores.