Música da semana

Está encontrado o feliz contemplado que herdará de George W. Bush a Casa Branca. Aquela onde, não à muitos anos, um outro presidente - na madrugada passada, passou a ser o antepenúltimo - de seu nome Bill Clinton, brincou aos médicos com Monica Lewinski.
Depois de uma novela que se arrastou por quase um ano, com congressos repletos de propaganda sobre a guerra no Iraque e Afeganistão, a economia mundial ou as dificuldades internas do país, eis que se chegou à eleição "oficial" do novo presidente. Acho que não era preciso perceber muito da coisa, para prever que iria ser Barack Obama o vencedor. O homem tinha tudo a seu favor: com uma aparência e espírito bastante jovial, é o primeiro negro a tornar-se presidente dos Estados Unidos, isto 145 anos depois de Abraham Lincoln abolir a escravatura. Obama era igualmente o favorito de alguns dos mais influentes líderes mundiais para suceder a Bush.
É por isso que esta semana escolho a música "Dear Mr. President" da irreverente Pink, que possui uma letra dirigida em particular ao Bush, mas que se pode aplicar a qualquer presidente, inspirando-o a uma introspecção. Pode ser que o Obama passe para ler o meu blog... ou o Cavaco Silva.

Dear Mr. President
Come take a walk with me
Let's pretend we're just two people and
You're not better than me
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep
What do you feel when you look in the mirror
Are you proud

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye
How do you walk with your head held high
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why

Dear Mr. President
Were you a lonely boy
Are you a lonely boy
Are you a lonely boy
How can you say
No child is left behind
We're not dumb and we're not blind
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pay the road to hell

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye
How do you walk with your head held high
Can you even look me in the eye

Let me tell you about hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you about hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you about hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you about hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing about hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh

How do you sleep at night
How do you walk with your head held high
Dear Mr. President
You'd never take a walk with me
Would you.