Je leve mon verre [English translation]

Serval, picture teller, son

I raise my glass to those who no longer believe in anything

To those who every morning stretch in fog

And nod off over black coffee

To those ruby red men

To those last sunrises that are priceless

And this forecourt coated with redcurrants

To those women who upon waking feel nothing under their hands

Those kids in combat fatigues armed with shotguns who don’t think of tomorrow

I raise my glass to those who sleep under tin roofs here and there

And to all those de luxe dead bodies that rot inside villas

I raise my glass to the birth of a child that fills a grave

To those butts that often are used as rattles

Those who underwrite someone else’s stupidity and grovel without grumbling

Like a resigned sucker crying he didn’t mean it

To those fathers that wear their butts off for their sons to deal shit

And those that don’t see their sterling raping the virgin veins of their daughters

To all those phantom towns spotted with crows

The work of a nonstandard cretin

I raise my glass to man

Come, I raise my glass to man x 7

I raise my glass to those who wobble under armour in a sunny spot

To those who rot in clink stuck behind an armoured door

To those who know but won’t tell, those truths deprived of oxygen

Those freedoms covered in chains and this wind of madness now raging

Those drunkards at the bar, their eyes as dull as their days

Those suited smiles that kill to fill up a cistern

Those who see death nowhere else but in combat

To the one who believes he’ll get by, luck smiles on such men

To all my pals still around and those already gone

To all those who didn’t want to play the game for fear of losing a round

To those damn/sacred memories one keeps buried deep at the back of one’s head

And one subdues with a joint every time backwash threatens

Those hearts ailing, those bodies lying, those souls mowed

Like too unripe wheat, damned be the crops of wrath

My glass I raise to intoxicating rumours

Which bewitch the mind of a nonstandard cretin

Well now, I raise my glass to man

To all those rotten governments, to all their suicide victims

To all those who smile stupidly, to you who cast the dices

Even if at times some shout out, ‘That’s it, it’s decided, I’m doing it this time’

I raise my glass to those whose arses aren’t blessed by fairies

To those who tan them under the sun, who make their own wonderland

And those whose sky is filled with the powerful desire of doing the same

To all those mothers who know only too well, having stayed up the night before

That on our good old Earth nothing is more expensive than dough

To all those sugared slashes a stiff bill leaves fuming

The mother absence that exults is but a rage-less half

I raise my glass to those pockets fingers have made holes in

And those whose holes come from the weight of coins, those who’ve always had a choice

To those rancid thoughts that are born only in suffering

To those arch-cretins who call us the under-France

To those who relativise well, to those who bear a grudge against me, yeah

Let them ponder and speak true

I raise my glass to those tender trunks in their barks of stone and

To those who get punched in the teeth yet keep them clenched

To those full Vuiton bags, to those cardboard pieces on the ground

To those who leave for diamonds and come back with glass splinters

To those who think they are in heaven and whose body hair, abused, is on fire

This nectar of life which death, same difference, comes to use from me

To this good old tarmac from which is born the flash that feeds my pen and your eyes

I raise my glass to man

Yeah, we lack neurons, son, and don't let this surprise you