She put on the wall, above the cradle
A picture of Arthur Rimbaud
With his hair brushed, she thinks he's handsome
In the kid's room, well done
Already the little angels on the tinted paper
I found it strange, I say nothing
Her crazy ideas make me laugh
Since she's been pregnant

She wakes up at night, wants to eat strawberries
She has strong cravings
I'm taking care of her, I'm working my fingers to the bone
So she lacks nothing, my little one
It's as if I'm peeing in a cello
As if I no longer exist for her
I find myself stuck, all alone in my pants
Since she's been pregnant

In the evening she knits while drinking verbena
I untangle her balls of wool
She wears out the mirrors looking at herself
Finding herself strange, all the time
I tell her she's as beautiful as an overripe fruit
She thinks I'm making fun of her, for sure
I must say what is, I'm also going crazy
Since she's been pregnant

I have to take off my shoes when I enter the room
Of the little nightingale she's brooding
It's her little man who's coming in December
She protects him like a wolf
Even the cat, she speaks ill of him
On the pretext that he's shedding his fur
She doesn't want to see him hanging around the paddock anymore
Since she's been pregnant

When I move my hands on the other side of her back
I feel like punches, it moves
I tell her "you're a garden, a flower, a stream"
Then she turns all red
Sometimes what saddens me, what makes me sad
When I look at her belly and mine
Is that even if I became as gay as a seal
I will never be pregnant.

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