He wears his heart on his sleeve and his hand on his heart
Yes but when he laughs it seems like he is dying.
He dresses in nothing, knows how to surrender elegant
In front of his mirror, hours can be seen.
What's the point of hurrying, we'll keep his place for him
Arriving at the café he sits down on the terrace.
Swaggering broken arm
Bras broken Fanfaron is Fanfaron
Grand maqâreau Fanfaron
Swaggering bullshit
Baratin Fanfaron is Fanfaron
He quickly found his accomplices
No one can contain his storytelling fever.
No one is perfect, he likes to repeat
Because he sees so many qualities in his faults.
And the hours go by, he forgets his house
The last one to speak always has his reason.
Who then explains himself with his hands
More confusing than an Italian.
Who thinks that his wife, his children
No longer wait for him and takes his time.
Swaggering broken arm
Bras broken Fanfaron is Fanfaron
Grand maqâreau Fanfaron
Swaggering bullshit
Baratin Fanfaron is Fanfaron
He holds on to the anisette that he drinks in company
His friends respect him for his heart, his spirit.
Man of tradition with a devout siesta
There he is thinking of his return when his eyes tingle.
The old lion gets up, shortens his stay
He goes to face the sun, very happy of this day.
Who says Sunday is sacred
Without seeing mass or priest.
Who does the sun ring
To his great laugh of friendship.
Swaggering broken arm
Bras broken Fanfaron is Fanfaron
Grand maqâreau Fanfaron
Swaggering bullshit
Baratin Fanfaron is Fanfaron
canno

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