There was someone looking at her face,
And we immediately understood,
Mr. Browning, he was called.
A name that smelled of adventure.
He was the king of the revolver.
He had magnificent things
That he had brought from America,
Where they made real gangsters.
He told us his story,
His first crime and then the glory.
Browning, Browning.
He showed us lots of pictures,
Taken from the first pages of newspapers.
Browning, Browning.
He told us, "You people in France,
You still lack experience."
Browning, Browning.
With that, there was no need to be strong.
It was always inappropriately awkward.
And long live Browning.
Because he had the elegance,
And the suits from the movies,
He looked at us up and down,
With contempt and insolence.
And all our women, they admired him.
"Ah! How does this look?
And that guy there, what size"
But we, the men, he chased us.
It was always the same story:
His first crime and then the glory.
Browning, Browning.
We saw on the major newspapers,
Just right next to Greta Garbo.
Browning, Browning.
To listen, we had to become stupid.
We no longer had anything in the head.
Browning, Browning.
And we thought, "Fed up to the end!"
He bothers us, the American.
And he's Browning.
To teach us the true way,
To teach us a good lesson,
He held out, this brave boy,
To show us his skills.
It was in a restaurant,
He wanted to experience it.
But the poor guy didn't have any luck.
As he brought out his tools,
He rolled under the seats,
With a little hole in his head.
Browning, Browning.
Oh, it wasn't a loud bang,
But still, he had died.
Browning, Browning.
And then someone amidst the silence,
Said "Now what do you think,
Browning, Browning?"
He thought of nothing anymore since he died.
You spoke too... Well, you were wrong.
Bye bye, Browning.