I had written a song
A real hit, a golden thing
With concrete lyrics
Music like Milord
It wasn't really my style
I told myself
I'm going to place it
It shouldn't be difficult
There's demand in this business, yeah yeah
I met Capdevielle
At the Apocalypse bar
I told him
Listen my old
It's called "The Cataclysm"
It tells the story of an angel
Who's a merchant of certainties
And who stabs in the strange sky
The ghost of solitudes
He's friends with Mary
The twilight cloakroom
Where all the night guards
Come to play the tightrope walkers
Here's my song, my friend
If you don't want it, no problem
I put it back in my pants
But you don't know what you're losing
He didn't like my song
Let's not talk about it anymore

I wrote another song
Something even more super
With concrete lyrics
With hellish music
But it didn't really match
My image, my niche
A bit like if Dalida
Sang Be-Bop-A-Lula, lalala
I met Lavilliers
One evening at Geoffroi-Guichard
In the immaculate green hell
I told him my story
The song takes place in New York
There's Jimmy who gets shot
By a black guy, at the corner of a block
By a very peculiar cop
But he wasn't really dead
He was only wounded
Jimmy, he's really strong
He's a dealer and they say he's slow
Here's my song, my friend
If you don't want it, no problem
I put it back in my pants
Go on, tell me you love it
He didn't like my song
Let's not talk about it anymore

I went back to my guitar
And my rhyme dictionary
I worked very, very late
I made a sublime song
I sang it to two or three friends
They told me, it's not for you
Sure your song kicks us
But a piece of advice, forget it
Then I met Cabrel
Sitting by the side of the highway
I told him, my song is called
"On the road's path"
And it's the story of a nun
In love with a pebble
In her life, there's no one left
But the merchants and the madmen
She wants to find her land
And her goats and her sheep
Escape doubt and dust
And see her Normandy again
Here's my song, my friend
If you don't want it, no problem
I put it back in my pants
Or at worst in my guitar
He didn't like my song
Let's not talk about it anymore

So I told myself, enough
I only write songs for myself
I wrote one right away
That tells the story of a guy
In love with his moped
But their love is impossible
She loves a wrench
Who's terribly jealous, horrible
In the end the guy dies
Eating a beer can
The moped commits suicide
By blowing a rod
The wrench ends up in jail
She who thought she was made of steel
And it's on this not funny ending
That my not gay song ends
And if you didn't like it
You know where I put it
Anyway, it won't be wasted
It will be warm, well lodged
Because now, my pants
I'm going to tell you, it's a real jukebox
You put ten bucks, you get four songs
You even have one that's long.

VIEW ORIGINAL LYRICS