Letra da Música: Memo From Turner - Rolling Stones

Didn't I see you down in San Antone on a hot and dusty night
Weren't you eating eggs in Sammy's there when the black man drew the knife
Didn't you drown the Jew in Rampton when he washed his sleeveless shirt
With a Spanish speaking gentleman, the one that we call Kirk

Come now, gentlemen, there must be some mistake
How forgetful I'm becoming, now you fixed your business straight

Weren't you acting down in Broadway back in 1956
You're a faggot, little leather boy with a smaller piece of stick
You're a lashing, smashing hunk of man, your sweat shines sweet and strong
Your organ's working perfectly but there's a part that's screwed on wrong

Ah weren't you at the Coke convention back in 1965
You're the misbred, gray executive that I've seen heavily advertised
You're the man that's careful (.. .. .. Brooklyn...)
You're the man who squats behind the man who works the soft machine

Come now, gentlemen, your love is all I crave
You'll still be in the circus when I'm laughing, laughing in my grave

Yeah when the old men do the fighting and the young men all look on
And the young girls eat their mommy's' meat from tubes of plasticon
So be wary, please, my gentle friends of all the skins you breed
They have a nasty habit, that is they bite the hand that feeds

So remember who you say you are and keep your trousers clean
Boys will be boys and play with toys so be strong with your beast
So Rosie dear, don't you think it's queer, so stop me if you please
The baby's dead, my lady said "You schmucks all work for me"


MEMO FROM TURNER (London Years/Performance version)
(Jagger/Richards)

Didn't I see you down in San Antone on a hot and dusty night?
We were eating eggs in Sammy's when the black man there drew his knife.
Aw, you drowned that Jew in Rampton as he washed his sleeveless shirt,
You know, that Spanish-speaking gentlemen, the one we all called "Kurt."

Come now, gentleman, I know there's some mistake.
How forgetful I'm becoming, now you fixed your bus'ness straight.

I remember you in Hemlock Road in nineteen fifty-six.
You're a faggy little leather boy with a smaller piece of stick.
You're a lashing, smashing hunk of man;
Your sweat shines sweet and strong.
Your organs working perfectly, but there's a part that's not screwed on.

Weren't you at the Coke convention back on nineteen sixty-five
You're the misbred, grey executive I've seen heavily advertised.
You're the great, gray man whose daughter licks policemen's buttons clean.
You're the man who squats behind the man who works the soft machine.

Come now, gentleman, your love is all I crave.
You'll still be in the circus when I'm laughing, laughing on my grave.

When the old men do the fighting and the young men all look on.
And the young girls eat their mothers meat from tubes of plasticon.
Be wary of these my gentle friends of all the skins you breed.
They have a tasty habit - they eat the hands that bleed.

So remember who you say you are and keep your noses clean.
Boys will be boys and play with toys so be strong with your beast.
Oh Rosie dear, doncha think it's queer, so stop me if you please.
The baby is dead, my lady said, "You gentlemen, why you all work for me?"