| 1967, in my head an idea germinates
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| In Senegal, I can't find my way, so I'll take the air
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| But how can I tell my father that tomorrow I won't be going to the port
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| That family of toubabs, take me to the airport
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| One way to France with an au pair job
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| At 14, I packed up without even saying goodbye to my father
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| I feel so sad, yet I don't cry on the plane
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| I think of my father, and my mother, gone without their blessing
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| But that's okay, I'll send them tunes from Europe
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| A few letters for my two brothers and for my sisters a few dresses
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| Everyone applauds and even my host family
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| Landing in Paris, it's gray, it sucks
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| People are unfriendly, here the blacks all play PMU
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| Or sleep in the street and inevitably it makes me a little emotional
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| I'm eighteen, already four years here
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| Working for this family that got me my C-I-N
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| National identity card, I can now emancipate myself
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| I go to the National metro, I think of the bled, yeah, of my life before
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| It's been a long time since I've seen anyone and I obviously miss it
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| At the beginning of 85, I got pregnant with the little Safé
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| But the future with his father, difficult to envisage
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| We live in the 12th century, hard to buy a dozen eggs
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| The little one has grown well, I have to buy a new stroller
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| I change her little panties, by chaining the little jobs
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| Now I'm a mother, I don't have time to say "pull up" anymore
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| I still send money home, even though I lost my parents
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| I wasn't there at the funeral, not enough money in the savings account
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| 91, second child on the way, bank account pissed off
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| And then my sisters who, from there, ask me for more and more dresses
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| And I take my life, I'm robust
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| I'm moving near the flea market
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| With the father, marriage recedes
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| The year of the divorce, I chain shitty jobs
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| My guarantors of the future, my little ones, I must be a worthy mother
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| Now you have to pay for the canteen, the clothes and all the stuff
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| As Nakk would say I have to get there, even if it will cost me my life
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| Still grounded, vodka, RedBull
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| At the time when the daronnes go to work are at the bus stop
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| She does the shopping, boy, you run away from school
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| Maybe in the street but in front of your house forced to slip away
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| She knows how to stay hard and soft so that you breathe, her pulse suffocates
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| While you hang around, interested in deals and women only
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| One mother only one, yes we only have one
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| Despite your shortcomings in amassing money, she remains a mother
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| Huh, boy that's what you call it
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| When you fail you pain it
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| When you succeed you appease it it is logical
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| She's not a housewife yet she washes your laundry but you remain insolent
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| and you think about doing big numbers
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| Of the species you'll waste without respect
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| In despé', leaves OCB, without even helping him
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| However, you hear his "Mayday mayday"
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| Ready to cross swords to see her dance in the summer |