Hexagone [English translation]

They embrace in January,

because a new year's beginning,

but for eons

France hasn't changed that much.

Days and weeks pass,

only the decor is changes,

the mentality is the same,

they're all useless, all bootlickers

There aren't many in February

Who remember Charonne,

and the sworn bludgeoners

who fine-tuned their work.

France is a country of cops,

on every street corner there’s hundreds of them,

To maintain public order,

they murder with impunity.

When in March,

on the other side of the Pyrennees,

they execute an anarchist of Basque Country,

to teach him to revolt,

they scream, they cry out in outrage

about this disgusting state killing,

but they forget that the guillotine

is still in action on our side too

To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,

that's not what's best currently,

and the King of the assholes, on his throne,

I wouldn't bet he is a German.

They are told in April,

on TV, in the papers,

not to remove their winter clothes,

that spring will soon arrive,

The old principles of the sixteenth century,

and the old stupid traditions,

they apply it to the letter,

I pity them, those idiots.

They remember in May,

a blood that flowed red and black,

a failed revolution

which almost turned back the tide of history.

I remember above all these sheep,

Terrified of freedom,

going to the polls by the millions,

to vote for law and order

They commemorate in June,

the landings in Normandy,

they think about the brave Yankee soldier

who came to get killed far from home.

They forget that sheltered from bombs,

the French shouted: long live Pétain,

that some were comfortably hidden in London,

that there weren’t many Jean Moulins.

To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,

it's not very glorious indeed

and the King of the assholes, on his throne,

don't you dare tell me he is a Portuguese.

They celebrate in July,

the memory of a revolution

that never put an end to

misery and exploitation.

They get their fill of balls,

fireworks and loud music,

they think they can forget in beer

that they are governed like pawns.

August is freedom,

after a long year in the factory,

they scream: hurrah for the paid holiday;

they forget about the daily grind

In Spain, in Greece or in France,

they go and pollute the beaches,

and, by their mere presence,

ruin every landscape.

When in September a people and their freedom

Are assassinated

at the heart of Latin America,

there aren’t many who denounce it

An ambassador turns up,

he's welcomed with open arms,

fascism is a blight,

in Santiago as in Paris.

To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,

it's really not a walk in the park,

and the King of the assholes, on his throne,

he's French, I'm sure of it.

Once the wine harvest is finished in October,

the grape fermenting in its barrels,

they are very proud of their vineyards,

their Côtes-du-Rhône and their Bordeaux.

They export the blood of the earth

almost everywhere abroad,

their plonk and their camembert

are those degenerates’ only glory

In November, at the Salon de l'auto,

they go by the thousands to admire

the very last model of Peugeot,

that they will never be able to buy.

Cars, TV and horse races

are the opium of the people in France,

confiscate them and you’ll kill it

they are addictive drugs

December, the pinnacle of the year,

Lots of food and little presents,

they are as gloomy as ever,

but there's joy in the ghettos.

The Earth could stop spinning,

they would not miss their Christmas Eve,

me, I'd like to see all of them die,

choking on the turkeys.

To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,

I cannot say it is boner-inspiring.

If the King of the assholes lost his throne,

they would be fifty millions13 pretenders.