I'm not a musician
I'm not a singer
God gave me hands
To comfort my heart
If I could have known
How much you didn't care
I would have killed the hope
To take you with me
I'm not made of sugar
I'm not made of salt
But I smell good like love
Up to armpits
If I had a voice
And the required moustache
To be broadcasted on Nova*
You would come back soon
When I think about it
Nothing heals
The gap
That you left
It's true that when I think about it
I have to go on
The session is over I know, so...
So I let go of my fingers on my keyboard
I slap my strings rather than your buttocks
I scream with all my being on a piece of wood
Rather than in your ears that listen only to yourself
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E
And you're not the most cunning
No you're not the craziest
When you want to play it “as”
It is “as” and will remain “as” **
As what you are not
But used to show me
You can change your way
But not what you are
When I think about it
Nothing heals
The gap
That you left
It's true that when I think about it
I have to go on
The session is over I know, so ...
So I let go of my fingers on my keyboard
I slap my strings rather than your buttocks
I scream with all my being on a piece of wood
Rather than in your ears that listen only to yourself
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E
So I let go of my fingers on my keyboard
I slap my strings rather than your buttocks
I scream with all my being on a piece of wood
Rather than in your ears that listen only to yourself
I let my tears flow on a crumpled paper
On which I write “I hate you” with my hand and then
What else must I do
To get back on my feet
Send you threats
Or a disgusting dead rat?
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E, hate you
H-A-T-E