Ma place dans le trafic [English translation]

The day is just breaking

I'm already awake

And already I run

a blade on my cheeks.

And the smoking coffee,

the lift that waits for me

and the engine I switch on

help me to slowly take

to take my place in the traffic

to take my place in the traffic.

I would like someone to come and set me free

but the one I just choosed

gave me barely enough to survive

and not enough to escape.

I remain a prisoner of my promises

to all these hagglers

who make me sleep on thick wool1

and force me, at the end of every single night,

to take my place in the traffic

to take my place in the traffic.

Now when I don't want to talk to anyone anymore

When I've got the blues

I pick up the reciever

and I dial 122

I am a mutant, a new man.

I don't even own my desires.

I use carbon oxydes for perfume

and I'm scared to find out how I will end.

And I watch the rebels walk away,

my skin feels too tight

but I swore on the law of standings.

If I want to die at the top one day

I have to take my place in the traffic,

must take my place in the traffic.

Now when I don't want to talk to anyone anymore

When I've got the blues

I pick up the reciever

and I dial 12.

Because whatever I say,

whatever I do

the black cars must drive on.

I am a mutant, a new man.

I don't even own my desires.

I use carbon oxydes for perfume

and I'm scared to find out how I will end.

There are so many terrible things

happening in my neighborhood

that my children are already aware

that they will have to get used to

steal my place in the traffic,

steal my place in the traffic.

My place in the traffic.

1. "haggler" is "marchand de tapis" (carpet seller), hence the metaphor of thick wool (they make me sleep on the carpets they sold me)2. at the time, it was the number of the French telephone information service. Real people were answering the call and gave a phone number in exchange for an address. Nowadays of course all this is done by computers. And there's facebook to forget about our empty lives