All the days of the week
Are empty and sound hollow
But even worse than the week
Is the pretentious Sunday
That would like to look rosy
The Sunday would like to appear
Like a day full of happiness
I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!
The streets are crowded
Millions of passers-by
This crowd that rolls along
With an indifferent facial expression
This crowd that is marching on
Like it's going to a funeral
The funeral of Sunday
That has died long ago
I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!
You work all week long and also on Sunday
Maybe it's because of this that I'm prejudiced
Honey, if only you were by my side
I would be ready to love
Everything that I do not love
The Sundays in springtime
The sun is casting its rays on everything
Which while they're shining erase
The sorrows of yesterday
Sunday filled with blue skies
And the laughter of children
From promenades of couples in love
To timid vows
And the flowers in the branches
And the flowers in the branches
And in the middle of the affray
People who are not in a hurry
Will cross the streets
We will slip through
The two of us, holding hands
Without wanting to know
What will happen tomorrow
Only possessing as only hope
Other Sundays
Other Sundays
And all the honest people
That one calls well adjusted
And those that are not
And who want one to believe they are
And who go to church
Because it is the custom
Who change their shirts
And put on a nice suit
Those who sleep for twenty hours
Because nothing stops them from doing so
Those who get up early
To go fishing
Those for who it's the day
To go to the cemetery
And those who make love
Because they have nothing else to do
Are jealous of our happiness
How I envy them
For having Sundays
For believing in Sundays
For loving Sundays
When I hate Sundays...