You said goodbye to Bangladesh
To your little wife, your three children
And in the hold of a fishing boat
You left to join the West
You imagined that by coming here
You would paint your life in pink
But Paris is not paradise
And in your dreary daily life
You sell roses

Now you walk nine hours a night
With your bouquet in hand
You wander from bar to bar
Obviously, you drink nothing
You hand out flowers and you smile
Thinking you're serving a noble cause
But romance is over
It needs to be mythical, something else
You sell roses, you sell roses

You know the capital better
Than an old taxi driver almost retired
And like a bandit on the run
You live at night and in hiding
Everyone thinks you're Pakistani
Prejudices are something else
And the emotion you know
Is contempt in large doses
You sell roses

You are much less unnoticed
In the eyes of those who have drunk too much
Men have generous hearts
When they are no longer really themselves
The price of five small sips
Is your most grandiose profit
To those who down rosé
Without worrying about cirrhosis
You sell six roses, you sell six roses
You sell roses

You would have preferred to wash dishes
In the back room of a small restaurant
Sell fruits at Place Monge
Right at the metro exit
A real status, a real salary
That would be the Grail, the apotheosis
But without papers, it's a struggle
You do the job that imposes itself
You sell roses

While waiting for less gray days
May my friend Bécaud forgive me
I told you so many times "no, thank you"
That I owed you these few words
And if I can serve your cause
By singing these verses everywhere
So that people turn you away less
And so there is more respect
That would be the bouquet, that would be the bouquet
That would be the bouquet

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES