On the coffee table
Which shines like a shoe
There's a pretty placemat
And an oyster shell ashtray
There are plastic fruits
Really good imitations
In a crystal bowl
Really well chipped
On the wall, in the hallway
There are chamois horns
To hang keys on
In the basement, where we don't go
African statues
Rub shoulders on the shelf
With little glass animals
Venetian trash
It's really small, Titi's mother's house
It's a little bit of Italy
It's happiness, misery and boredom,
It's death, it's life
There's a beautiful bullfight
On a tacky fan
Placed above the sofa
Like a scarecrow
On the black lace
There's the death of a bull
Who had trouble believing
That he was still under Franco
There's a poor Virgin Mary
Her two feet in the water
Who gets covered with snow
When you shake her
The idiot barometer
In the ship's anchor
And the photo of a dog
Torn out of a magazine
It's really small, Titi's mother's house
But there's everything I've told you about
That woman, if you don't know her
You wouldn't believe it, you wouldn't believe it
On the TV, which has pride of place
One day, I saw a book
I think it was Le Grand Meaulnes
Near the copper pot
In the newspaper rack
Made of wicker, you'd doubt it
There's Nous Deux, Le Figaro,
The La Redoute* catalogue
Worse, down the hall
There's my buddy's den
Where his guitars,
his jackets and boots live
His collection of comics
And in the middle of this mess
The butt of a joint
And an old New Look**
It's really small, Titi's mother's house
Titi doesn't care about it
He tells me that his life is really small, too
And that his home is everywhere
When he talks about leaving
His mother tells him he's crazy
That he's still not married
That his chicks are poufs***
And that if he goes off
Without question, he'll come back
With his dirty laundry to wash
At the end of each week
So he stays there
Smothered but loved
Busying himself a bit with the cats
While waiting to worj
He wants to be a singer
His mother believes it, too
"Look, he's got a beautiful voice
Like his father had"
It's really small, Titi's mother's house
It's a little bit of Italy
It's happiness, misery and boredom,
It's death, it's life