Où c'est que j'ai mis mon flingue ? [English translation]

I want my songs to be caresses,

Or else punches in some faces.

Whoever my aggression is to (1 ),

I want to shake you in your armchairs.

So listen to me a bit,

paper pushers and pig breaths,

Squares, folk enthusiasts, journos.

Since there's my name in your papers,

Since they see my face on TV

Where I sell my poisoned soup,

You got a bit too much on my nerves.

I'm not singer for my friends

And I can be nasty like a dog.

I declare not with Aragon

That poets are always right.

Women are cunts' future

And men are nothing's one (2 )

I have my own future on the counter

Of a top filthy dirty bar,

Hell, where have I put my gun ?

I shall not have my head messed with

By fascists, by leftists,

All them poor indoctrinated guys

Who put my rebellion in the tomb.

All those who call me a rabble-rouser

In their rags I'd never read

"Renaud is dead, he fell into their hands".

All those terminal petit-bourgeois

Who don't speak, don't write, who drool,

Who will live old their pathetic lives,

Have all a corpse in their mouths.

Anyway, I don't sing for those losers

And they haven't heard the last of me.

That's surely not a gold record

Or an Olympia all to myself (3 )

Which could make me change tack,

Which could shut my mouth.

As long as there will be hate in my needles

I shall sing but for nutcases,

Hell, where have I put my gun ?

It's not only kids in the street

Who stick to my ass for a pic'

There are even cops who salute me,

They want me to sign in their hats.

I spit in them and scream out loud

That marine blue makes me puke,

That I don't like work, justice and army.

They shall never see me walk

With the bastards who cast their votes,

To choose the one who'll make them die.

Those kind of days I stay in bed.

I don't care about the crass struggle (4 ),

Every system is disgusting !

I can't stand flags,

Though the black one is the prettiest.

La Marseillaise, even the reggae cover, (5 )

Always made me puke.

Military marches mess me up

And I do fuck your Republic,

Hell, where have I put my gun ?

Since my pocket knife was taken away

One night at Saint-Michel Station,

I no more set foot in protests

Without a nunchaku or a cocktail (6 )

At Longwy as at Saint-Lazare,

No more slogans facing the cops,

But rifles, paving stones, grenades !

To yell at repression

Marching from Bastille to Nation (7 )

When my bros die in jail,

That gives some good conscience to cunts,

Pig breaths and paper pushers

Who put my rebellion in the tomb.

If one day I fall on the floor,

Surely it shall be Baader's fault.

If I die with my nose in the gutter,

Surely it shall be Bonnot's fault. (8 )

For now, my face is on the counter

Of a top filthy dirty bar

But watch out !

I have my hand around my gun !