Organizer of our lives, like
You want us to be beasts of burden,
Shaddocks with pumps,
You know, you're wrong.
In the head of hardware store in Nanterre
Who stores, in his drawers, pieces of iron,
Without much music,
There is the Compagnie Transatlantique.
Intimate life is maritime.
All up there, in the glass towers,
The Little Watermans, the poor Parkers,
Without the trade winds,
Without the skippers, the beautiful tanned ones,
In his school the schoolboy,
Sailboats, crumpled dictations,
In harsh prisons,
Boats drawn on the walls.
Boats, boats,
I'm walking in a deep ravine,
Boats,
In dog pee.
Boats, boats,
I close my eyes: already, I'm far away.
Boats, boats,
Flavor of me prisoner,
Boats,
In these slow days.
br/>Boats,
In my head, a freedom.
Intimate life is maritime.
Look at her, the pretty flotilla,
Dreamer in the morning, who scatter
Towards a dirty job,
A spinaker in the job.
You can vote, mechanic,
All these people who have apathetic airs
br/>But not catch it,
The boats they have hidden in their heads.
Organizer of our lives, like
You want us to be beasts of burden ,
Shaddocks with pumps,
You know, you're wrong.

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