Lyrics and translation Renaud - Baston (Bobino 80)

Baston (Bobino 80)

Les poings serrés au fond des poches de son blouson,
Angelo flippe à mort, il est encore plombé,
Il accuse le bon Dieu de la fatalité,
Mais, au fond de sa caboche, y se fait pas d'illusions:
A force de cartonner, dans tous les azimuts,
Des gonzesses qu'on t le cœur planté en haut des cuisses,
La rouquine do pressing, des minettes ou des putes,
Sûr qu'il a pas fini de s'en choper des choses tristes.
Y rêvait d'une gonzesse qu'aurait été qu'à lui,
Belle comme un tatouage mais quand même intelligente,
Qu'il aurait pu aimer un peu comme un ami,
L'a une envie de crever qui lui remonte do bas-ventre.

Alors ce soir, à la foire,
Avec deux trois lascars,
Il ira au baston,
Comme le prolo va au charbon,
Il ira au baston, au baston,
Filera des coups, prendra des gnons,
C'est peut-être con, mais tout est con!

Les poings serrés au fond des poches de son blouson,
Angelo flippe à mort, il est encore viré,
C'est le quatrième boulot depuis le début de l'année,
Toute façon y serait barré, mais où il est marron,
C'est que y s'était promis, avant de décaniller,
De se faire le coffre fort dans le bureau do premier,
Et la; peau do petit chef qu'a jamais pu le saquer
Passe que y rangeait sa mobe devant le box do patron.
Y rêvait d'un travail où faudrait pas pointer
Où tu pourrais aller que quand t'en a envie,
Que tu ferais par plaisir, pas pour gagner do blé,
Y paraît que ça existe dans la philosophie.

Alors ce soir, à la foire,
Avec deux trois lascars,
Il ira au baston,
Comme le prolo va au charbon,
Il ira au baston, au baston,
Filera des coups, prendra des gnons,
C'est peut-être con, mais tout est con!

Les poings serrés au fond des poches de son blouson,
Angelo flippe à mort en découvrant le chantier
Dans la tourne glacée en haut do pavillon
Où ses parents s'engueulent à longueur de journée.
Y trouve plus sous son pieu sa colece de Play-Boy,
Sa mère a bazardé sa rouleuse et son herbe,
Son connard de petit frère est venu jouer aux cow-boy
Dans sa piaule, c'est le boxon et ça lui fout la gerbe!
Y rêvait d'une famille que y faudrait pas subir,
Des parents qui seraient pas des flics ou des curés,
Pour pas de venir comme eux y voudrait pas vieillir,
Et pour jamais vieillir y sait que y doit crever!

Alors ce soir au baloche,
Avec son manche de pioche,
Il ira au baston, au baston,
Comme le prolo va au charbon,
Il ira au baston, au baston,
Filera des coups, prendra des gnons,
C'est peut-être con, mais tout est con.

Brawl (Bobino 80)

His fists clenched in the depths of his coat,
Angelo is terribly anxious, he is still depressed,
He blames God for his misfortune,
But deep down, he's under no illusions:
After hitting so many people, from all sides,
His heart has been broken into a million pieces,
The redhead at the dry cleaners, chicks or whores,
He's sure to end up getting himself into some sad situations.
He dreamed of a woman who would be solely his,
Beautiful as a tattoo, but still intelligent,
Someone he could love like a friend,
He has an urge to cry that's coming up from his stomach.

So tonight, at the fair,
With a few mates,
He's gonna go to the fight,
Like the working man goes to the coal mine,
He's gonna go to the fight, to the fight,
Throw punches, take hits,
Maybe it's stupid, but everything is stupid!

His fists clenched in the depths of his coat,
Angelo is terrified, he's been fired again,
It's his fourth job since the beginning of the year,
He would have been fired anyway, but what really pissed him off,
Is that he had promised himself, before he left,
To crack the safe in the boss's office,
And the hide of the little boss who never liked him
Ever since he parked his motorbike in front of the boss's parking space.
He dreamed of a job where he wouldn't have to clock in,
Where he could go whenever he wanted,
That he would do for pleasure, not for money,
They say that exists in philosophy.

So tonight, at the fair,
With a few mates,
He's gonna go to the fight,
Like the working man goes to the coal mine,
He's gonna go to the fight, to the fight,
Throw punches, take hits,
Maybe it's stupid, but everything is stupid!

His fists clenched in the depths of his coat,
Angelo is terrified when he sees the damage
In the cold attic of his parents' house,
Where his parents argue all day long.
He can't find his collection of Playboys,
His mother threw out his rolling machine and his weed,
His asshole little brother came to play cowboys
In his room, it's a mess and it makes him sick!
He dreamed of a family that he wouldn't have to endure,
Parents who wouldn't be cops or priests,
He doesn't want to end up like them,
And to never grow old, he knows he has to die!

So tonight at the party,
With his ax handle,
He's gonna go to the fight, to the fight,
Like the working man goes to the coal mine,
He's gonna go to the fight, to the fight,
Throw punches, take hits,
Maybe it's stupid, but everything is stupid.