I've been downing twelve beers
You have to say it was Saturday night
I was quietly collapsed
In front of my TV, on my bed
There was Jean-Pierre El Kavada
Who was telling me about Afghanistan
And Poland and Lebanon
He doesn't know about El Salvador
The information for these guys
Is to scare the prole, the bourgeois
With Russian tanks, with Ayatollah
Tomorrow, watch out, it's going to be cold
And besides that, well, it's okay
If something happens we'll tell you

Here's my chick who comes into my room
Who tells me what are you doing stuck there
Aren't you tired of these clowns
Aren't you tired of their rat faces
I answer her, I don't give a damn
But I don't want to miss tele-football

This evening, it was looking great
I downed a beer
For the number one Mick Jagger
With Dylan and Bruce Springsteen
I hadn't read well, bad luck
It's the number one Becassine
With a blowjob to Guignol
A hand on Colombine's ass
If it makes your kids laugh
Me, it totally pissed me off
It was a close call, damn it
That I throw my beer in the TV
But it's better to laugh at these scumbags
Than to waste food

Here's my chick who comes into my room
Who tells me what are you doing stuck there
Aren't you tired of these clowns
Aren't you tired of their rat faces
I answer her, I don't give a damn
But I don't want to miss tele-football

After, I watched Dallas again
This rotten, disgusting soap opera
It makes the people shudder
To see all these bastard children
These crooked Americans full of money
Making the apology of money
Of filth and dirt
They really take us for idiots
And now that we are socialists
No more American soap operas
We want Soviet soap operas
And even Belgian ones, there are good ones
There's one, it's the story of a fry
Who's in love with a communist

Here's my chick who comes into my room
Who tells me what are you doing stuck there
But aren't you tired of these clowns
Aren't you tired of their rat faces
I answer her, I don't give a damn, darling
I don't want to miss tele-football

So, she tells me instead of alienating yourself
With this stupid TV
Don't you hear that your kid woke up
Go heat up her bottle
And if it's not too much to ask
You'll have to change the cat's litter box
Hurry up or you'll miss
Pierre Cangioni and Stopyra
When I got to the kitchen
I thought to myself, a little Ricard
But after my fourteen beers
I was a little bit in the coltard
I drank a big glass of Blédine
I crashed in the cat's litter box
And in my kid's bottle
I put sawdust and Pastaga
The moral of this song
It's great, oh yeah, I want
It's that TV, it's very dangerous
And football too a little

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