Are we the last of the Mohicans, of the unfortunate
To simply dream of a life together?
And if it all makes us crazy, that's even better
Are we the last rampart of the obsolete world
that dreams of guitar more than a bunch of tickets?
And if it all makes us crazy, perfect
We are the imbeciles
We screwed up, clearly
It's written in the magazines in stupid ink
In stupid ink, mmh-mmh-mmh
We are the imbeciles
And yet happy, clearly
It's not said in the magazines, yet
I never thought people would see me bigger
Prettier, whiter than I really am
I made mistakes, yeah but you must not,
Not that we talk about it apparently
Should we suffocate all of our flaws, our emotions?
And are we the memory of an abandoned world
Where little matters as long as we have peace?
My friends, I want you sing to my departure
We are the imbeciles
We screwed up, clearly
It's written in the magazines in stupid ink
In stupid ink, mmh-mmh-mmh
We are the imbeciles
And yet happy, clearly
It's not said in the magazines, yet
The happy imbeciles
The happy imbeciles
Oh, oh, eh
We are the imbeciles
We screwed up, clearly
It's written in the magazines in stupid ink
In stupid ink, mmh-mmh-mmh
We are the imbeciles
And yet happy, clearly
It's not said in the magazines, yet
The happy imbeciles
Oh, yet
The happy imbeciles
Oh, yet