On the living room table
That shines like a shoe
There's a pretty doily
And an oyster ashtray

There are plastic fruits
Really well imitated
In a crystal bowl
Really well chipped

On the wall, in the entrance
There are chamois horns
To hang the keys
Of the cellar where we don't go

The African statuettes
Rub shoulders on the shelf
With the little glass creatures
Venetian dirt

It's very small at Titi's mother's
It's a bit like Italy
It's happiness, misery, and boredom
It's death, it's life

There's a beautiful bullfight
On an ugly fan
Placed above the sofa
Like a scarecrow

On the black lace
There's the death of a bull
Who can hardly believe
That he's no longer under Franco

There's a poor Virgin
Both feet in the water
Who covers herself with snow
When you shake her

The stupid barometer
In the marine anchor
And the picture of the dog
Taken from a magazine

It's very small at Titi's mother's
But there's everything I'm telling you
This woman, if you don't know her
You don't believe it, you don't believe it

On the TV that reigns
One day, I saw a book
I think it was The Great Meaulnes
Next to the copper pot

In the newspaper rack
In rattan, you guess,
There's Nous Deux, Le Figaro,
The Redoute catalogue

Then at the end of the corridor
There's my buddy's room
Where his guitars live
His jacket and his boots

His comic book collection
And in the middle of the mess
The butt of a joint
And an old New Look

It's very small, at Titi's mother's
Titi doesn't care
He tells me that his life is very small too
And that his home is everywhere

When he talks about leaving
His mother tells him he's crazy
That he's not even married
That his girls are floozies

And that if he left
No way he's coming back
With his dirty laundry to wash
At the end of each week

So he stays there
Suffocated but loved
Takes care of the cats a bit
While waiting to work

He would like to be a singer
His mother believes in him
Given that he has a beautiful voice
Like his dad had

It's very small, at Titi's mother's
It's a bit like Italy
It's happiness, misery, and boredom
It's death, it's life

It's very small, at Titi's mother's
It's a bit like Italy
It's happiness, misery, and boredom
It's death, it's life

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