There’s fire in me belly, there’s wind in me sails…

Questa per esempio è una specie di fiaba moderna: un pugile, un duro, un lottatore di strada che si innamora di una ragazza, solo che lei lo ignora e le amiche ridono di lui,

At me bloody nose dripping and me cauliflower ear,
For it’s hard to convince in a romantic pose,
With a lovely black eye and a broken nose,

(del sangue che mi colava dal naso, delle mie orecchie a cavolfiore,
perché è dura essere convincenti in un atteggiamento romantico
con un grazioso occhio nero e il naso rotto)

Lui però non si dà per vinto e impara a danzare ballando il valzer con una scopa: così se lo avessero scoperto avrebbe potuto fingere di allenarsi o al limite di ramazzare il pavimento. E proprio quando sembra che la fortuna gli abbia voltato le spalle, “bruciare i ponti della strategia”, ossia lasciarsi andare, si rivelerà la mossa vincente:

Ye swing to the left, ye swing to the right,
Keep your eyes on your partner, more or less like a fight,
Ye just follow the rhythm, and ye keep to the beat,
The important thing’s never to look at your feet,
Then a miracle happens, your mind’s in a trance,
Though the strategy’s subtle, retreat and advance,
It’s all about attitude, all in your stance,
Attention to detail, leaving nothing to chance,
Which explains how the pugilist finally learned how to dance.

Well, I’d waltz with a broomstick and if I was caught,
I’d pretend I was sweeping or practicing sport,
But I really had eyes for your mother ye see,
Wanting her to acknowledge this new version of me,
But now everyone’s watching, expecting I’ll fail,
But there’s fire in me belly, there’s wind in me sails,
I knew it was risky and I was taking a chance,
I couldn’t retreat now, I had to advance.

[…]

It’s a three-minute round and you’re back in yr corner,
You’re licking yr wounds just like little Jack Horner,
Don’t let your guard down try a jab with your right,
Or you’re losing on points by the end of the night,
Then a miracle happens, and everyone’s screaming,
You’re pinching yourself just in case you’re still dreaming,
You’ve taken the initiative, you’ve taken your chance,
It’s the night when this pugilist finally learned how to dance.
In a bout where the strategist’s bridges were burned,
Where it seemed that his fortune had suddenly turned,
‘Twas the night that this scrapper was suddenly dapper,
And this poor fellow’s heart was still going like the clappers,
The night that the pugilist finally learned how to dance.
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