Highlife in the CityGerhard SchöneEr hieß Jürgen, nannte Charlie sich, war grad 18einhalb,seine Jeans war'n oft geflickt und nicht mehr blau.
Seine Eltern nannt' er Spießer, Konsumsklaven und Genießerund Polypen nannte der den ABV.Charly ging nicht mehr zur Arbeit und er ging weg von zuhaus.
Auf der Wiese stand ein altes Autowrack.Das Ding hat er ausgemistet und sich darin eingenistet,malte Blumen auf das Dach mit Nitrolack.Er sang: Highlife in the City, oh my life is pretty,y eah, y eah, y eah.
Oh no no Highlife in the City, oh my life is pretty,yeah, yeah, yeah.
Er hat Perlen aufgefädelt und als Schmuck das Zeug verkauft,hat Lupinensamen um sein Nest gestreut.
Putzte machmal sich die Zähne, trug ein Stirnband um die Mähneund las Hemmingway, Karl May und Sigmund Freud.Eines Tages kam sein Oller mit 'nem Wartburg angebraust,zog den Charly an den Haaren und brüllte rum.
Charly aber sagte leise "Arme Spießer, arme Greise!"Und allmählich wurde da sein Pappi stumm.
Und er hörte Charly reden, wie sein neues Leben fetzt,wie er Vögel füttert, Blumen säht und singt.
Pappi riß den Schlips vom Kragen, schmiß ihn fort,fing an zu klagen, daß sein Spießerleben ihn doch selbst anstinkt.
Sie sangen: Highlife . . .Nach paar Jahren war der Anger von Lupinen überwachsen,und im Autowrack sang laut ein alter Mann.Er lag faul auf der Matraze, trug ein Stirnband um die Glatzeund er hatte ein paar schrille Blue-Jeans an.
Einmal kam ein schwarzer Fiat durchs Lupinenfeld geschnitten.
Jürgen stieg heraus, frisiert und parfümiert.
Und er schrie: "Du Unnormaler, Spinner, Hippie, Asozialer!",denn im Autowrack sang Pappi ungeniert:%
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