If you come to dig deep, archaeologist of the pants
You'll find lots of cool things
Among the crumbs of brioche
With my keys that are wandering
There are a few coins when I'm broke
And when a melody catches me
I scribble black notes and quavers
In my pockets, in my pockets, in my pockets

Inside the wallet
The number of a Japanese
An old cinema ticket
No baby photo yet
A white ticket for the metro
A Velib card for the bike
I turn off my TV even more
Since I became a real street urchin
In my pockets, in my pockets, in my pockets

Everything depends on the jeans of the day
But I always slip my hands in
Especially when autumn becomes ugly
And warms up the approaching winter
I also place my ideals
My convictions my finger held high
A fist hard as a rock
For those that hardship catches
By the pockets, by the pockets, by the pockets

For a moral in pickaxe sleeve
I have a beautiful one in my head
Even if it means taking a lot of reproaches
I have to tell you something is wrong
Because I work a whole bag
And I write on a Macintosh
While I have a pen nearby
Which even writes rhymes in oche
In my pocket, in my pocket, in my pocket
In my pocket, in my pocket, in my pocket
In my pocket, in my pocket, in my pocket

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES