They kiss in January
_____
'Cause a new year starts
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France hasn't changed that much
_____
Days and weeks go by
_____
Only the scenery changes
_____
The mindset stays the same
_____
All losers, all two-faced a**holes
_____
They're not bothered, come February
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About remembering Charonne
_____
The sworn baton-wielders
_____
Who polished off their job
_____
France is a land of cops
_____
On every street corner there's a hundred of them
_____
To impose public order
_____
They kill with impunity
_____
When in March they execute
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On the other side of the Pyrenees
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A Basque anarchist
_____
For daring to rise up
_____
They shout, they cry and get outraged
_____
At this filthy execution
_____
But they forget the guillotine
_____
Still works here at home too
_____
Born under the sign of the Hexagon
_____
Isn't the best we do right now
_____
And the king of idiots, on his throne
_____
I wouldn't bet he's German
_____
They were told in April
_____
On TV, in the papers
_____
Not to take off a single layer
_____
That spring was coming soon
_____
The old sixteenth-century principles
_____
And the stupid old traditions
_____
They follow them all to the letter
_____
Those morons make me pity them
_____
They remember, in May
_____
Blood that flowed red and black
_____
That nearly overturned History
_____
I mainly remember those sheep
_____
Going to vote by the millions
_____
In June they commemorate
_____
A Normandy landing
_____
They think of the brave Yank soldier
_____
Who came to get killed far from home
_____
They forget that, safe from the bombs
_____
The French yelled Long live Pétain
_____
That they were well hidden in London
_____
That there weren't many Jean Moulins
_____
Born under the sign of the Hexagon
_____
That's no glory, truth be told
_____
And the king of idiots, on his throne
_____
Don't tell me he's Portuguese
_____
They party in July
_____
In memory of a revolution
_____
Misery and exploitation
_____
They soak up street dances
_____
Fireworks and oom-pah
_____
They think they'll forget in beer
_____
They're ruled like pawns
_____
In August it's freedom
_____
After a long year in the factory
_____
They shout Long live paid holidays
_____
They forget the machine for a while
_____
In Spain, in Greece, or in France
_____
They go pollute every beach
And by their mere presence
_____
Ruin all the landscapes
_____
When in September they murder
_____
In the heart of Latin America
_____
Not many shout about it
_____
With open arms he's welcomed
_____
Fascism is gangrene
_____
Born under the sign of the Hexagon
_____
It really ain't a cushy job
_____
And the king of idiots, on his throne
_____
He's French, that I'm sure
_____
Harvest's over in October
_____
The grapes ferment in barrels
_____
They're very proud of their vineyards
_____
Their Côtes-du-Rhône and their Bordeaux
_____
They export the blood of the earth
_____
A little everywhere abroad
_____
Their plonk and their camembert
_____
That's these nutters' only pride
_____
In November, at the Motor Show
_____
Thousands go admire
_____
The latest Peugeot model
_____
They can never afford
_____
The car, the TV, the trifecta
_____
Is the opium of the French people
_____
Take it away and you kill him
_____
It's an addictive drug
_____
In December it's the apotheosis
_____
The big feast and the little gifts
_____
They're still just as gloomy
_____
But there's joy in the ghettos
_____
The Earth could stop turning
_____
They won't miss their New Year's Eve
_____
I'd like to see them all croak
_____
Choked by chestnut-stuffed turkey
_____
Born under the sign of the Hexagon
_____
Can't say that's a turn-on
_____
If the king of idiots lost his throne
_____
There'd be fifty million contenders