Lyrics of Les jardins ouvriers (Les illusions) - Serge Lama

Les jardins ouvriers (Les illusions) (original)

Les jardins ouvriers
S’changeaient branche branche
Des oiseaux le dimanche,
Les maisons se parlaient.
a sentait le bb,
Les drages, les baptmes,
L’amour, les chrysanthmes,
Le propre et les abbs.
Des illusions, ils en avaient
Plein leurs armoires, plein leurs greniers
Qu’ils transmettaient par testament
leurs enfants.
a s’envolait comme un ballon,
C’tait sucr comme un bonbon,
C’tait pas vrai, mais c’tait bon,
Les illusions.
Les jardins ouvriers
C’tait de la verdure,
Un zeste de nature
O le soleil brillait.
Elle qui reprisait,
Lui, qui fumait sa pipe,
a faisait des quipes
Le coeur qui se taisait
Mais, les illusions,
Ils les dansaient sous les lampions,
Sur les pavs, dans la mitraille
Des trilles des accordons,
Les mois, les premiers frissons,
Les fleurs mortes et les papillons,
Ficels dans les botes en carton
Vos illusions.
Les jardins ouvriers
S’changeaient branche branche,
Des oiseaux le dimanche,
Mais… les maisons parlaient
Quand tu aimais les jeux
De Rimbaud, de Verlaine,
Par derrire les persiennes,
On te montrait des yeux.
Les illusions, c’tait au fond
Un parfum qui sentait pas bon
Comme ces fleurs qui poussent
Au milieu des chardons.
Les rumeurs battaient aux balcons
Comme le vent et les chansons,
a rend heureux, mais a rend con:
Les illusions.

(translation)

Allotment gardens
Changed branch branch
Birds on Sunday,
The houses talked to each other.
a felt the bb,
Sweets, baptisms,
Love, chrysanthemums,
The proper and the abbs.
Illusions they had
Full their cupboards, full their attics
Which they transmitted by will
their children.
a flew away like a balloon,
It was sweet as candy,
It wasn't true, but it was good,
The illusions.
Allotment gardens
It was green,
A touch of nature
Where the sun shone.
She who took over,
He, who smoked his pipe,
made teams
The silent heart
But, the illusions,
They danced them under the lanterns,
On the pavements, in the grapeshot
accordion trills,
The months, the first shivers,
Dead flowers and butterflies,
Strings in cardboard boxes
Your illusions.
Allotment gardens
Changed branch branch,
Birds on Sunday,
But… the houses were talking
When you loved games
Of Rimbaud, of Verlaine,
Behind the shutters,
You were shown eyes.
The illusions were deep down
A perfume that smelled bad
Like these flowers that grow
Among the thistles.
Rumors beat on the balconies
Like the wind and the songs,
a makes you happy, but a makes you stupid:
The illusions.