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作词 : Jack Kerouac
作曲 : Jack Kerouac
……
There was a little alley in San Francisco,
back of the Southern Pacific station at Third and Townsend.
In redbrick of drowsy lazy afternoons with everybody at work in offices.
In the air you feel the impending rush of their commuter frenzy,
as soon they’ll be charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings.
on foot and in buses,
and all well-dressed thru workingman Frisco of walkup truck drivers,
and even the poor grime-bemarked Third Street of lost bums,
even Negros so hopeless and long left East,
and meanings of responsibility and try.
That now all they do is stand there spitting in the broken glass,
sometimes fifty in one afternoon against one wall at Third and Howard.
And here’s all these Millbrae and SanCarlos neat-necktied producers,
and commuters of America, and Steel civilization,
rushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins,
not even enough time to be disdainful.
They’ve got to catch 130, 132, 134, 136 all the way up to 146
till the time of evening supper in homes of therailroad earth.
When high in the sky the magic stars ride above
the following hotshot freight trains.
It’s all in California.
It’s all a sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sun hot meditation in my jeans
with head on handkerchief on brakeman’s lantern or (if not working) on book.
I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity,
And feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me,
And I have insane conversations with Negroes in second-story windows above,
and everything is pouring in.
The switching moves of boxcars in that little alley,
which is so much like the alleys of Lowell,
and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains.
But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above the little S.P. alley,
puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of Marin
to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break your heart.
It was the fantastic drowse and drum hum of lum mum afternoon nathin’ to do.
Ole Frisco with end of land sadness.
The people--the alley full of trucks and cars of businesses nearabouts.
And nobody knew or far from cared
who I was all my life three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O opened up,
And at last belonged to me in Great America.
Now it's night in Third Street,
the keen little neons and also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe flops,
With dark ruined shadows moving back of tom yellow shades
like a degenerate China with no money.
The cats in Annie's Alley,
the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with darkness.
Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old hotel roofs,
And blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior,
The grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth by tooth.
The reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak, chair and slantboards
and old faces looking up over rimless spectacles bought in some
West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool England pawnshop long before I was born.
And across rains they've come to the end of the land sadness
end of the world gladness,
All you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually, and burn again.
But I'm walking and one night,
a bum fell into the hole of the construction job
where they're tearing a sewer by day,
The husky Pacific & Electric youths in torn jeans who work there often I think of
going up to some of them like say blond ones with wild hair and tom shirts and say:
"You oughta apply for the railroad it's much easier work,
you don't stand around the street all day and you get much more pay."
But this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick out,
a British MG also driven by some eccentric once backed into the hole.
And as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon local to Hollister out
of San Jose miles away across verdurous fields of prune and juice joy,
here's this British MG backed and legs up wheels up into a pit,
and bums and cops standing around right outside the coffee shop.
It was the way they fenced it.
But he never had the nerve to do it due to the fact
that he had no money and nowhere to go，
O his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his sister was dead
and O his where about was dead was dead.
But and then at that time also I lay in my room on long Saturday afternoons
listening to Jumpin' George, with my fifth of tokay no tea,
and just under the sheets laughed to hear the crazy music:
"Mama, he treats your daughter mean."
"Mama, Papa, and don't you come in here I'll kill you." etc.
Getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous,
knowing about the Negro the essential American,
out there always finding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street,
and not in abstract morality.
And even when he has a church,
you see the pastor out front bowing to the ladies,
on the make you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon
sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying: "Why yes mam,
but de gospel do say that man was born of woman's womb*."
And no, and so by that time,
I come crawling out of my warmsack and hit the street,
when I see the railroad ain't gonna call me till 5 AM Sunday morning,
probably for a local out of Bay Shore.
In fact, always for a local out of Bay Shore.
And I go to the wailbar of all the wildbars in the world,
the one and only Third-and-Howard.
And there I go in and drink with the madmen, and if I get drunk I git.
The girl who come up to me in there the night, I was there with Al Buckle
and said to me: "You wanta play with me tonight Jim?"
And I didn't think...I had enough money.
And later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said:
"How do you know she wanted money always take the chance,
that she might be out just for love or just out for love,
you know what I mean man don't be a sucker."
She was a goodlooking doll,
and she said: "How would you like to oolyakoo with me mon?"
And I stood there, like a jerk.
In fact, bought drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club.
I was hit by the proprietor the band breaking up the fight before,
I had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didn't do anyway.
And out on the street I tried to rush back in,
but they had locked the door,
and were looking at me through the forbidden glass in the door,
with faces like undersea.
I should have played with her
shulululululululululukadooky.?
heng...
…
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