In a shabby spot
inside Paris’ slums,
on a square,
there’s an old pub
run by a filthy
swine.
If you have a delicate palate,
and only taste
premium-quality wine,
have a drink at "Passy",
the nectar from this place
it’s beyond you.
But if your throat get
an armor of steel
lining it inside,
Just take a swig of this velvet,
this noble, very
threatening plonk.
Here, you’ll find
the very flower
of the street scum,
all of the destitute,
the hard cases
in that neighbourhood,
all coming in a row,
like a shoal of herrings,
to look with their very eyes
the pub’s beauty,
the wife of that filthy
swine.
I swear I’ll drink every drop
of water in the
"Wallace" fountains,
if right here and now,
you are not knocked out
by the grace
of this sweet peach
who has made a pit
into a palace,
with all her charms,
From top to bottom,
right where it counts.
And these delightful treasures,
who’s petting them ?
Who’s embracing them ?
Damm it’s going too far !
It’s all for that filthy
Swine !
It’s not fair, it’s mad,
but what could
we do to this fact ?
Love is getting old,
he’s just not seeing
straight any more.
If you are courtin',
just take care your chat
doesn’t irritate her.
Just you behave yourself,
don’t take a chance on her or
sparks will fly.
Because her slaping hand,
punishes with palm and back (slaps)
bold moves.
There’s not a man born
who’ll poke his nose
in her cup.
Not born, this fortunate one
who’ll manage to unfreeze this
block of ice.
Who’ll, behind his back,
put horns on that filthy
Swine.
In a shabby spot,
inside Paris’ slums,
on a square,
A sweet peach of a kind,
has made a pit
into a palace.