Paroles et traduction Edith Piaf - Browning

Browning

Y avait qu'? r'garder sa figure
Et tout de suite on comprenait:
Monsieur Browning, qu'on l'appelait,
Un nom qui sentait l'aventure.
C'? tait le roi du revolver.
Il en avait de magnifiques
Qu'il avait ram'n? s d'Am? rique,
O? qu'on fabriqu' les vrais gangsters.
Il nous racontait son histoire,
Son premier crim' et puis la gloire,
Browning, Browning.
Il nous montrait des tas d'photos
Pris's en premi? r' pag' des journaux,
Browning, Browning.
Il nous disait: "Vous autr's en France,
Vous manquez encor' d'exp? rience.",
Browning, Browning.
Avec? a, pas besoin d'? tr' fort.
C'est l'maladroit qu'a toujours tort
Et viv' Browning.
Parc' qu'il avait de l'? l? gance
Et des costum's de cin? ma,
Il nous r'gardait de haut en bas
Avec m? pris et insolence
Et tout's nos femm's, ell's l'admiraient
"Ah! comment c'est qu'il a d'allure
Et ce typ' l?, quelle envergure."
Mais nous, les homm's, il nous courait.
C'? tait toujours la m? m' histoire:
Son premier crim' et puis la gloire,
Browning, Browning.
On l'voyait sur les grands journaux,
Juste? c? t? d'Greta Garbo,
Browning, Browning.
A l'? couter, on d'venait b? te.
On n'avait plus qu'? a dans la t? te,
Browning, Browning
Et nous pensions "Marre? la fin!
Il nous ennuie, l'Am? ricain
Et son Browning."
Pour nous apprendr' la vraie mani? re,
Pour nous donner un' bonn' le? on,
Il a tenu, ce brav' gar? on,
A nous montrer son savoir-faire.
C'est dans un' sall' de restaurant
Qu'il a voulu fair' l'exp? rience,
Mais le pauvr' typ' n'a pas eu d'chance.
Comme il sortait ses instruments,
Il a roul? sous la banquette
Avec un p'tit trou dans la t? te,
Browning, Browning.
Oh? a n'a pas claqu? bien fort
Mais tout de m? m', il en est mort,
Browning, Browning,
Et puis quelqu'un dans le silence
A dit "Maint'nant? quoi qu'tu penses,
Browning, Browning?"
Il pens' plus rien puisqu'il est mort.
Tu parlais trop... ben t'as eu tort.
Bye-Bye, Browning

Browning

You only had to look at his face
And you immediately understood:
Everyone called him Mr. Browning,
A name that smacked of adventure.
He was the king of revolvers.
He had magnificent ones,
Which he had brought back from America,
Where real gangsters are made.
He told us his story,
His first crime and then the glory,
Browning, Browning.
He showed us a pile of photos
Taken on the front pages of newspapers.
Browning, Browning.
He used to tell us: "You others in France,
You still lack experience.
Browning, Browning.".
With it, you don't need to be strong.
It's the clumsy one who is always wrong.
And long live Browning!
Because he was elegant
And wore movie costumes,
He looked down on us
With contempt and insolence.
And all of our women admired him.
"Ah! how handsome he is,
And what a man he is, what a presence.".
But for us men, he was a pain in the ass.
It was always the same story:
His first crime and then the glory,
Browning, Browning.
We saw him in the big newspapers,
Right next to Greta Garbo,
Browning, Browning.
Listening to him made us stupid.
We had nothing else in our heads,
Browning, Browning.
And we thought, "Enough! The end!
The American bores us,
And his Browning."
To teach us the real way,
To give us a good lesson,
This good guy decided
To show us his know-how.
It was in a restaurant
That he wanted to do the experiment,
But the poor guy had no luck.
As he was pulling out his tools,
He rolled under the bench
With a little hole in his head,
Browning, Browning.
Oh, it didn't go off very loudly
But all the same, he died from it,
Browning, Browning,
And then someone in the silence
Said, "Now what do you think,
Browning, Browning?"
He doesn't think anymore since he's dead.
You talked too much... well, you were wrong.
Bye-Bye, Browning.