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Alain Souchon

1830 Love

In the park at the break of day
She wanted us to take a walk
I had to court her
But not love her
But not love her
 
She started a poem
And she ran off crying
From far away, she shouted to me: 'I love you'
In the wind, yes, in the wind
 
Me, 1830 love
Pathetic, romantic
I found it old-fashioned
Me, 1830 love
I didn't know how to understand it
And I stay unhappy, unhappy
 
In the park at the break of day
A carriage goes off
It's carrying my love
It's my love that's going off
 
I kept this blue handkerchief
The souvenir of a poem
And I walk unhappily
How I love her!
How I love her!
 
Me, 1830 love
Pathetic, romantic
I found it old-fashioned
Me, 1830 love
I didn't know how to understand it
And I stay unhappy, unhappy
 
I wanted to live in the present
A love of time gone by
When one impedes the wind
The wind can tear everything up
 
Me, 1830 love
Pathetic, romantic
Pathetic, romantic
Pathetic, romantic
I found it old-fashioned
 
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Evander

Small announcement

'I'm seeking a sun girl to warm up my suburbs
A Provence girl for my escalators
I'm seeking a helping hand in the sleeping crowd
Write!
I'm seeking a flower girl near Saint-Germain
A boat girl to go out with on the Seine
If you want the sea at the bottom of the RER1
Write!'
 
[Refrain:]
I left the sun at the other part of day
I have no more than the night to find my love
I left the sun at the other part of day
I have no more than the night to fall in love
 
'I'm seeking a friend perhaps at the end of my country
With eyes like the sky and hair like leaves
But the sky is leaden and the summer is somewhere else
Write!
Write words to me that are impossible to say
Words of running water and words of forest
I'm seeking a flower girl in the town that cries
Write!'
 
[Refrain]
 
'I'm seeking a hawthorn girl in the maze of planets
In the years of prayer, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
I'm seeking a love of light and I have a headache
Write!'
 
[Refrain]
 
  • 1. Presumably the Réseau Express Régional, a Parisian public transit system
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Evander
Align paragraphs

Life is not worth a thing

He looked at his life from all angles
to see if existence had some meaning.
He asked the opinion of lots of people,
all delighted to give their opinion about life.
He went through the smoke of whirling
dervishes,
of pot smokers,
and he said:
 
Life is not worth a damn thing.
Life is not worth a thing,
but when I just hold
but when I hold
in these two bewildered hands
the two nice little breasts of my sweetheart,
then I say there's nothing, nothing
nothing better than life1.
 
He watched space go by,
among the jet set, the pomp, the palaces,
and then glorified janitors2.
Some put their hopes in steeples and monasteries,
looking to see a good old cushy Sgt. Pepper3,
but there's only Richard Gere up there.
He crawled like a bug into Internet sites
to meet people from sects,
and he said
 
Life is not worth a damn thing.
Life is not worth a thing,
but when I just hold
but when I hold
in these two bewildered hands
the two nice little breasts of my sweetheart,
then I say there's nothing, nothing
nothing better than life.
 
He saw lacks of love and money,
how corrosive life is,
how it washes out people.
He played lame guitar tunes4 for some
drowsy friends.
What a nostaligia!
And he said:
 
Ah!
Life is not worth a damn thing.
Life is not worth a thing,
but when I just hold
but when I hold
in these two bewildered hands
the two nice little breasts of my sweetheart,
then I say there's nothing, nothing
nothing better than life.
 
There's nothing, nothing
nothing better than life. (x2)
 
  • 1. lit. 'life is worth nothing / nothing is worth life'
  • 2. lit. 'surface technician', the PC equivalent of 'janitor'
  • 3. pun on 'pépère' (easy, tranquil) and the Beatles' character
  • 4. The first bars of ' can be played with the right hand only. I has become a symbol for phoney guitar players
This translation does not claim to be of any particular value.
Glad if you liked it, sorry if you didn't.
You can reuse it as you please.
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Hard to please

She tells me that I'm always whining,
that I'm like a little kid who would
no longer love his games, his life, his mom.
She says that I'm always whining,
 
that I'm really mean, too hard to please.
Really mean, too hard to please.
 
Back then already my parents
wanted me to act charming
among some friends of my granddad's,
some pharmacists, some lawyers
 
who found me really vulgar, very common.
Really vulgar, very common.
 
Then I was forcibly drafted
in the paratroopers at Pau1.
They wanted me to fall from planes
hanging from a mushroom.
 
I squarely told them 'No, bad plane2!'
Squarely told them 'No, bad plane!'
 
I ran away to England where
I acted the Frenchman super lover.
I died my hair and eyebrows
to darken my hue, to look manly.
 
Completely stupid, can't find my style.
Completely stupid, can't find my style.
 
I got the blues while
writing songs on my bed.
Ghostwriting for lousy singers.
I had to say 'France', 'American'.
 
It really got at me, disgusted me.
Really got at me, disgusted me.
 
Them property developers crooks wanted me
to take tea money, playing the straw man
to build thier blue carboard community flats
for little boys to gamble on them3.
 
I simply set fire to them: serves them right!
Simply set fire to them: serves them right!
 
She tells me that I'm always whining,
that I'm like a little kid who would
no longer love his games, his life, his mom.
She says that I'm always whining,
 
that I'm really mean, too hard to please.
Really mean, too hard to please.
 
  • 1. some town in Southwestern France
  • 2. sounds like a little kid
  • 3. I don't really know what he's alluding to here
This translation does not claim to be of any particular value.
Glad if you liked it, sorry if you didn't.
You can reuse it as you please.
Glad if it's for knowledge or understanding, sorry if it's just for money or fame.
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Golden parachute

So long, megaphones, so long, demonstration banners
So long, union representatives
Bring on some sun and calypso music
Pineapples and coconuts
Bring on trade winds, tropical breezes
And let me laze on my boat with my curly hair
 
So long, traders, so long, jogging
Briefings on Bretling time1
Workmen, have a laugh; bye-bye, blue-collars
The factories are moving to China
The share prices plummeted
Banks weren’t laughing anymore
 
The company went under, but I call a truce
Let’s have a real good time
Now we’re out to catch some rays
I’ve got a parachute, but shhh! A golden one!
 
So long, megaphones, so long, demonstration banners
So long, union representatives
Bring on some sun and calypso music
Pineapples and coconuts
No more drinking Chateau Petrus in Lanvin suits2
No more pretty Russian hookers on Falcon 20 planes3
 
Thrown out, milling machines and machine tools
Workmen, please enjoy that wonderful waste
I racked, racked, I racked up a lot of company debt
But I didn’t rack my brains much4
One day, the stock plummeted
And I jumped with my parachute…
 
The company went under, but I call a truce
Let’s have a real good time
Now we’re out to catch some rays
I’ve got a parachute, but shhh! A golden one!
 
So long, megaphones, so long, banners
So long, union representatives
Bring on some sun and calypso music
Pineapples and coconuts
 
So long, my telephone, so long, my office
Secretaries in high heels
Bring on trade winds, tropical breezes
And let me laze on my boat with my curly hair
 
The company went under, but I call a truce
Let’s have a real good time
Now we’re out to catch some rays
I’ve got a parachute, but shhh! A golden one!
 
  • 1. Breitling is a Swiss luxury watch brand.
  • 2. A French high fashion house.
  • 3. 'Falcon 20' (formerly 'Mystère 20') are business private jets manufactured by the French company Dassault Aviation.
  • 4. There is a wordplay with the verb 'creuser' (to dig). Both idioms are 'creuser la dette' (to increase a debt) and 'se creuser la tête' (to think very hard about something, litt. 'to dig a hole in one's head').

The little singer

The little singer cry
Don't sing anymore
All disgusted
His little Nini gone
Poor little
What will be his life ?
In the newspapers yak, yak, yak
They're botching all this guys
Poor singer, poor singer
In the TV it's sure
To hide his injury
On his face
A lot of make-up
It's heavy, heavy, heavy
 
If you're singer and you're crying
We says ; 'Good Lord, what a heart !
Congratulations to the decorator !'
Yes, but if you're machining
CEO, Real estate development
or ye old' grinder.
Your Nini is gone
you're alone in your bed
Everybody don't care. You undestood me...
No way it's sure
To hide your injury
to put on your face
a lot of make-up
It's heavy, heavy, heavy
 
The Ninis when she'd gone
It's tears, pain, hysteria
Wagner, the Valkyries
If you're the Pope, you pray
The President, safari
But for us, only chianti
 
You're not really singer
you're note a star on color
Poor your heart, poor your heart
Don't have your ECG
in the newspaper
Your gried on the back
you're a snail
who says that's hurt ! hurt !
 

Some rumba in air

There's some rumba in air
Tuxedo awry
I don't follow you in this bad trip
You can't live your life again !
Looking for pieces of yesterday, fatso
In pre-World War II rubbles
the Casino is just now pieces of stones
You can't live your life again !
 
Connect your headphone this way
the sea is still gone
Old Casino wrecked, game over !
Fatso, shouln't you have like a old nostalgia
of the tickling in Bugatti
of the Uh là là, the gala evening, Riveiera
 
There's some rumba in air
Tuxedo awry
I don't follow you in this bad trip
You can't live your life again !
Looking for pieces of yesterday, fatso
In pre-World War II rubbles
the Casino is just now pieces of stones
You can't live your life again !
 
Close the eyes of the tall girl in marine
All languid for Nights of China
on the moleskin benchs of the limos
Let's hear the story between Trouville and Dinard
Of a endend long kiss, it's too late
Hand on satin, morning caresses : grif !
 
There's some rumba in air
Tuxedo awry
I don't follow you in this bad trip
You can't live your life again !
Looking for pieces of yesterday, fatso
In pre-World War II rubbles
the Casino is just now pieces of stones
You can't live your life again !
 

He Rolls (The Flowers from the ball)

His heart is bleak
And without reason
Five hours later
He leaves the house
He gets going
Leaves without reason
Beckoned by
The horizon
Perhaps love
Perhaps life
The death of the day
Or just boredom
To leave in the night
To go like that
This need
Everyone has that
Larmor-Baden
Guingamp
Outside the black of the plains
And then black inside
He leaves he leaves
Like he had somewhere to go
Leaving there - in the hall
On the sun scatters
The flowers from the ball
In the road is his motor
He gets going
His throttle
The consolation
The guitars play loud
In his cockpit
They are his comfort
Amniotic
He rolls he rolls
Like the tears that flow
Leaving there in the hall
On the sun scatters
The flowers from the ball
To leave in the night
To go like that
This need
This need
Everyone has that
He rolls he rolls
In the wind and the stars
Back there - in the hallway
On the sun scatters
The flowers from the ball