Not really the look that pleases,
Not really the aesthetic job.
In the morning strawberry jam,
In the evening ethyl discomfiture.
In the evening discomfiture, travel, Sullitzer.
br/>Big literature, Arlequin collection.
Lots and lots of reading, it gives you the air
Like a guy who is inaugurating the great Blaires salon.
Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub
Singing, Singing, Singing, Singing rubadub
Torn with alcohol you waver,
Torn but no problems.
For suddenly the city that shines,
And your life becomes a poem again.
Your life becomes three musical notes again,
Which quickly “join” the cervical lesions.
You plugged in the turntable, and you hear say "Stop",
It's Massillia that aligns her Rubadub phrasing.
Singing...
You're waiting for polling day
To consult the lists,
You're still not really the indelible fathead.
You just have a bit of the card
Of a communist party but
You've already erased all these names that parade.
You're just a bit of a rocker,
But pretty cool.
Not really Frenchy,
Local Sicilian.
You look too much like the faces of malaise,
br/>The brother solution is not in the voting booth.
You don't like handsome guys,
Amp-chain on the car.
Metallic design, Perfecto and boudoir.
br/>You don't like beauties,
Straight legs.
On bicycles spread apart,
Mocking and "No feeling".
You prefer them "stencil",
Real red balloons.
Fry sellers at the fair,
And armpit lickers
In the morning you clean your brain,
Simple municipal employee.
Cross the neighbors and then those
Who only have a friendly hello
To give you!
Only a friendly hello,
But you expect more than that.
Radical disgust,
When you no longer have a choice.
Unplug the turntable,
Down in the trash,
You become the "has-been" again,
The faithful citizen...
Singing...
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling
Rubadub - styling

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