Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Le Sirop De La Rue, artist - Renaud.
Date of issue: 27.05.2021
Song language: French
Le Sirop De La Rue(original) |
La boule à zéro |
Et la morve au nez |
On n'était pas beau |
Mais on s’en foutait |
Le Mercurochrome |
Sur nos genoux pointus |
C'était nos diplômes |
D’l'école de la rue |
Le seul vrai enfer |
Qu’on avait sur terre |
Il était dans l’ciel |
De nos pauvres marelles |
On avait dix ans |
Pis on ignorait |
Qu’un jour on s’rait grands |
Pis qu’on mourirait |
L’eau des caniveaux |
Nous f’sait des rivières |
Où tous nos bateaux |
Naviguaient pépère |
Aujourd’hui les moineaux |
Evitez d’tomber |
Le nez dans l’ruisseau |
La gueule sur l’pavé |
À moins d’pas trop craindre |
Les capotes usées |
Et les vieilles seringues |
Et les rats crevés |
L'été sur les plages |
C’tait l’débarquement |
J'étais les GI’s |
T'étais les Allemands |
Pistolet à flèches |
Carabine en bois |
Et ma canne à pêche |
C’tait un bazooka |
Dans les vieux blockhaus |
On f’sait notre Q. G |
C'était bien craignoss' |
Qu’est-c'que ça chlinguait |
Les filles v’naient jamais |
Parc’qu’elles craignaient qu’on |
Veuille les tripoter |
Elles avaient raison |
Quand tu ramassais |
Un gros coquillage |
Eh ben t’entendais |
La mer, l’vent du large |
Aujourd’hui t’as qu’une |
Symphonie d'4×4 |
Qui vont dans les dunes |
Comme a Ouarzazate |
Le son des tocards |
Réchappés hélas |
Du Paris-Dakar |
Du rallye d’l’Atlas |
On était inscrits |
Pour tout l’mois d’juillet |
À des cours de gym |
Et au club Mickey |
En c’temps là Disney |
Faisait pas les poches |
Ni les porte-monnaie |
À des millions d’mioches |
C'était l’Figaro |
Qui organisaient |
L’concours de châteaux |
De sable que j’gagnais |
Aujourd’hui c’journal |
Est l’ami des enfants |
Au Front National |
Et au Vatican |
Quand t’allais t’baquer |
Tu t’buvais peinard |
Un tasse d’eau salée |
Pas une marée noire |
Creusant l’sable blond |
Tu ram’nais des coques |
Pas des champignons |
Ni des gonocoques |
Dans les bouteilles vides |
Y’avait de messages |
Pas les pesticides |
D’un dernier naufrage |
L’jour où j’mourirais |
Puisque c’est écrit |
Qu’après l’enfance c’est |
Quasiment fini |
Devant l’autre charlot |
J’espère arriver |
La boule à zéro |
Et la morve au nez |
Du Mercurochrome |
Sur mes genoux pointus |
Qui connaissent l’arôme |
Du sirop d’la rue |
Lui qu’a eu tant d’mômes |
Et qui les a perdus |
(translation) |
The zero ball |
And snot in the nose |
We weren't pretty |
But we didn't care |
Mercurochrome |
On our pointed knees |
It was our diplomas |
From school on the street |
The only real hell |
What we had on earth |
He was in the sky |
Of our poor hopscotch |
We were ten |
We didn't know |
That one day we would be grown up |
Worse than we would die |
Water from the gutters |
We make rivers |
Where all our boats |
Sailing cushy |
Today the sparrows |
Avoid falling |
The nose in the stream |
The mouth on the pavement |
Unless you don't fear too much |
Worn out condoms |
And the old syringes |
And the dead rats |
Summer on the beaches |
It was the landing |
I was the GIs |
You were the Germans |
arrow gun |
wooden rifle |
And my fishing rod |
It was a bazooka |
In the old blockhouses |
We do our Q. G |
It was very scary |
What was it chlinging |
The girls never came |
Because they were afraid that we |
please fiddle with them |
They were right |
When you were picking up |
A large seashell |
Well you heard |
The sea, the offshore wind |
Today you only have one |
Symphony of 4×4 |
Who go to the dunes |
Like in Ouarzazate |
The sound of losers |
Sadly survived |
From Paris-Dakar |
From the Atlas Rally |
We were registered |
For the whole month of July |
At gym classes |
And at Club Mickey |
In those days Disney |
Didn't pick pockets |
Neither purses |
To millions of brats |
It was the Figaro |
who organized |
The Castle Contest |
Of sand I was earning |
Today this newspaper |
Is child friendly |
At the National Front |
And in the Vatican |
When you were going to fuck |
You were drinking yourself cushy |
A cup of salt water |
Not an oil spill |
Digging the blond sand |
You were picking up shells |
Not mushrooms |
Or gonococci |
In the empty bottles |
There were messages |
Not pesticides |
Of a final shipwreck |
The day I would die |
Since it is written |
That after childhood it is |
almost finished |
In front of the other charlot |
I hope to arrive |
The zero ball |
And snot in the nose |
Mercurochrome |
On my pointy knees |
Who know the aroma |
Street syrup |
He who had so many kids |
And who lost them |