Текст и перевод песни Zebda - Singing

Singing

Pas vraiment la gueule qui plaise,
Pas vraiment le job esthétique.
Le matin confiture í la fraise,
Le soir déconfiture éthylique.

Le soir déconfiture, voyage, Sullitzer.
Grosse littérature, collection Arlequin.
Beaucoup, beaucoup lecture, ça te donne des airs
D'un mec qui inaugure, le grand salon des blaires.

Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub
Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub

Déchiré d'alcool tu vacilles,
Déchiré mais pas de problèmes.
Car tout í coup la cité qui brille,
Et ta vie redevient un poème.

Ta vie redevient trois notes musicales,
Qui font vite le "joint" des lésions cervicales.
T'as branché la platine, et t'entends dire "Stop",
C'est Massillia qu'aligne son phrasé Rubadub.

Singing...

T'attends le jour des urnes
Pour consulter les listes,
T'es quand même pas trop le fat indélébile.
T'as juste un peu la carte
D'un parti communiste mais
T'as déjí gommé tous ces noms qui défilent.

T'es juste un peu rocker,
Mais bien assez balaise.
Pas vraiment frenchy,
Sicilien du terroir.
Tu ressembles trop aux tronches du malaise,
La solution brother n'est pas dans l'isoloir.

T'aimes pas les beaux mecs,
Ampli-chaí®ne on the car.
Métallisée design, Perfecto et boudoir.

T'aimes pas les beautés,
Les jambes rectilignes.
Sur bicyclette écartées,
Moqueuses et "No feeling".
Tu les préfères "pochoir",
Ballons rouges réelles.
Vendeuses de frites í la foire,
Et lécheuses d'aisselles

Le matin tu nettoies ta cervelle,
Simple employé municipal.
Croiser les voisines et puis celles
Qui n'ont qu'un bonjour amical
A te donner!

Qu'un bonjour amical,
Mais t'attends plus que ça.
Le dégoít radical,
Quand on n'a plus le choix.
Débrancher la platine,
Jusqu'au fond des poubelles,
Tu redeviens le "has been",
Le citoyen fidèle...

Singing...
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling

Singing

Not really the face that pleases,
Not really the aesthetic job.
Strawberry jam in the morning,
Alcoholic disappointment in the evening.

In the evening, disappointment, travel, Sullitzer.
Great literature, Harlequin collection.
A lot, a lot of reading, it gives you the look
Of a guy who opens the grand salon of blares.

Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub
Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub

Torn by alcohol you falter,
Torn but no problems.
Because all of a sudden the city that shines,
And your life becomes a poem again.

Your life becomes three musical notes,
That quickly "joint" the cervical lesions.
You plugged in the record player, and you heard "Stop",
It's Massillia who lines up his phrasing Rubadub.

Singing...

You wait for the day of the ballot box
To look at the lists,
You're not really the indelible fat.
You just have a little the card
Of a communist party but
You have already erased all these names that parade by.

You're just a little bit of a rocker,
But quite strong enough.
Not really French,
Sicilian of the terroir.
You look too much like the faces of malaise,
The solution, brother, is not in the voting booth.

You don't like handsome guys,
Amplifier chain on the car.
Metallic design, Perfecto and boudoir.

You don't like beauties,
Straight legs.
On bicycle spaced,
Mocking and "No feeling".
You prefer them "stencil",
Red balloons real.
French fries vendors at the fair,
And armpit lickers

In the morning you clean your brain,
Simple municipal employee.
To meet the neighbors and then those
Who only have a friendly hello
To give you!

A friendly hello,
But you're waiting for more than that.
Radical disgust,
When you don't have a choice.
Unplug the turntable,
To the bottom of the trash cans,
You become the "has been",
The faithful citizen...

Singing...
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling