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Like these children of whores who sing the sixties
Bob Dylan style, who give us songs about nothing
Just to steal our women.
Clever little ones, singers of tomorrow on great refrains from yesterday
To steal a bag even from an old man, there's really nothing to be proud of
Nor to be happy, so I say.
Oh oh oh oh, charming singers
Oh oh oh oh, give us back our women.
Oh oh oh oh, sellers of tears
Oh oh oh oh, arms dealers, all arms dealers.
Oh, straw and poorly learned bluesmen puking into microphones and amps
Who turn their backs on Rossini, starting out like finished stars.
Revolutionaries who count for nothing
In the shadow of a city in tears.
To steal a bag even from an old man, there's really nothing to be proud of
My little guy, nor to be happy, so I say.
Oh oh oh oh, charming singers
Oh oh oh oh, give us back our women
Oh oh oh oh, sellers of tears
Oh oh oh oh, traffickers of arms, all arms traffickers
Charm singers.
Sellers of tears, sellers of tears.
Sellers of tears, sellers of tears.