He's got such eyes, big dark eyes, like a woman's
which are enough to guess the whole tragedy1
of these nights when the nightclubs close and it's 5 AM
and you have to drag your wretched heart home.
His hands are a bit too big, a bit too strong,
sometimes he says they make her want to be dead,
after too much smoke and drink and too much singing
of these nights when he could not bring himself to go home.
(chorus: )
He puts on makeup
to look like a girl.
He puts on scent
and hight hells
and flowers in his bun.
He puts on makeup
to lool like a girl.
He is a splendid girl2
wants to be called Mademoiselle
She is very lonely but never sad in public:
a true woman knows how to remain modest.
And when her laughs is a bit too loud, too forced,
it's to avoid the questions of the bystanders.
She would have liked to run her small business,
her little boutique, her little hole in the wall.
She would have selled lace underwears there
for real buttocks and breasts of real females.
(chorus)
His family youth vanished in the air.
He looks at this body he can't recognize.
You can't say he's fresh as a rose,
at least he will escape the menopause.
He dreamed a life of songs and movies,
a jumble of loving lovers full of passion.
He sang romantic and charming tunes then,
and women were envious of his talent.
(chorus x2)
1. lit. "which tell everybody already the tragedy"2. French adjective is feminine here