Victim of pastry attacks
Oh, how he made us laugh
The philosopher of the fancy neighborhoods
With his white shirt unbuttoned

Arrogance is his trade
But damn, how we laughed
When he tried to revolt
With his little clenched fists
The pied one

Ten times, twenty times he was humiliated
By simple whipped cream
And hopes to recover from it
I'm afraid it's off to a bad start

The pie-thrower avenged us well
From this devalued Jean-Paul Sartre
Who comes to lay on TV
His old, worn-out speeches
The pied one

The idol of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
Even though he writes with his feet
Has the insane pretension
To tell us what to think

At Flore, at Deux Magots, standing
In front of a vintage coupe
He remakes the world, convinced
He has a role to play in it
The pied one

He tried his hand at cinema
All of France laughed
When the theaters were deserted
In the middle of the film

In Bosnia, he tried hard
To play the hero, the Hemingway
War reporter in ambush
Pie-throwing, yes, not mortars
The pied one

Mother Beauvoir as a fiancée
Would have pleased the pied one
But it seems he hooked up
With a much better-looking girl

A well-lit Barbie doll
But no, I didn't say crazy
Despite her peroxide hair
She's nicer than her Dopey
The pied one

I want pie-throwers by the thousands
I'm going to learn the trade myself
There are soon going to be some who will pay
It's not the targets that will be missing

Let's forget this poor B.H.V.
He's been beaten up enough
There are other pedants to deal with
Than this poor, well-groomed boy

And above all, long live Le Gloupier

The pied one

The pied one

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