Quem diria que Woody Guthrie teria algo a ver com Donald Trump? Ou melhor, com o pai, Fred Trump. Pois, Guthrie foi seu inquilino nas torres de Beach Haven, aquelas que Fred mandou construir a baixo preço com o dinheiro de subsídios estatais, no tempo do New Deal de Roosevelt, que não alugava nem a negros, nem porto-riquenhos. Como Woody escrevia canções sobre tudo o que o inquietava, surgiram os temas: "Trump made a tramp out of me", "Old man Trump", "Beach Haven ain’t my home" e agora, em dois discos de título Woody at Home - bootlegs esquecidos num baú, surge "Backdoor bum and the big landlord".
A canção surge em modo de parábola, um encontro imaginário entre um
vagabundo e um abastado senhorio. A letra é extensa, sempre com o vagabundo muito ativo: a fazer uma fogueira, a cozinhar, a tocar flauta, mas por sua vez o
senhorio conta moedas de ouro para comprar a entrada na porta do Paraíso – mesmo
à Guthrie!
Perante o velho porteiro, o vagabundo entrou facilmente, mas o senhorio
chegou atrasado com as suas moedas. Irado por não poder entrar disse "Eu compro
este lugar!", fez como fazia cá na Terra. Por fim, o rico senhorio acabou por ir parar ao Inferno, onde o ouro
derreteu.
Este texto é baseado num artigo de Nuno Pacheco, no jornal Público de 11 Setembro, 2025. Eis o texto original para ouvir com a voz já doente de Woody:
Away on up yonder, in
the blue green sky
Where the good Angels
go to fly,
A Backdoor Bum and a
Big Landlord
Went a walking side by
side.
Said the Big Landlord
to the Backdoor Bum
"My feet’s getting
awful tired"
Said the Backdoor Bum
to the Big Landlord,
"We’ll camp and build a
fire."
This Landlord said, "I
just got here
From a planet called
the earth;
I wouldn’t know how to
build a camp,
Much less, to build a
fire."
The Old Hobo said, "Yes, I know,
But you’ll freeze dead
tonight
If we don’t make a big
bonfire
To make this night look
bright."
The Landlord sat and
scratched his head
While the old Bum
scouted around
For some phosphorus
logs to rub with stars
As the dark come
tumbling down;
His blaze got bright
just as the night
Got darker than the
darkest star
His fire looked like a
newborn star,
In my universe that
night.
This Big Landlord
reached in his belt
And he counted his
golden chips
The Bum boiled up a
starry stew
And he smacked his
hungry lips
He said, "You’d sure
better fill your gut
With comet stew
tonight."
"No, thank you," grunted the Landlord,
"I’ve lost my
appetite."
The side street Bum ate
down his stew
Then he pulled out a
whittling knife
Cut a reedy whistle
from a woody limb
And he played in the
starshine bright
The Landlord frothed at
the mouth and says,
"Please let your music
wait
I’m counting out enough
gold money
To get in the Pearly
covered Gate."
The Bum rolled over and
went to sleep
And the Landlord stayed
awake;
Gold and silver he
counted all night
Till the sun come
daylight to break
They broke their camp
and walked and climbed
Up a canyon some made
from clouds;
That Landlord couldn’t
keep up with the Bum
‘Cause his moneybag
pulled him down’.
"Passport nor coins
I’ve not got."
The Bum joshed the
guard at the gate
"I’ll blow you a tune
on my panpipe flute."
All the hands passed
him down their streets.
The Big Landlord was
half a day late
Holding coins in both
o’ his hands
One said, "Our city is
build of gold.
Your coins you can
never spend."
The Landlord yelled, "I’ll buy this place!
Take me to the Boss Of
The Gate!
I’ll buy me a Judge,
Medina or two.
Raise your rents and
kick you out in the street."
The guard pushed a
button and opened a shaft;
He shot the landlord to
Hell.
Now the Devil is
dipping his fork in the gold.
But the Landlord’s
dollars did melt.
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