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| Home → Sung by others → Jean Bertola → Le revenant |
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| Le revenant (Musique de Jean Bertola) |
The revenant (Music by Jean Bertola) |
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| Calme, confortable, officiel, En un mot résidentiel, Tel était le cimetière où Cet imbécile avait son trou. Comme il ne reconnaissait pas Le bien-fondé de son trépas, L’a voulu faire – aberration! – Sa petite résurrection. Les vieux morts, les vieux «ici-gît», Les braves sépulcres blanchis, Insistèrent pour qu’il revînt Sur sa décision mais en vain. L’ayant astiquée, il remit Sur pied sa vieille anatomie, Et tout pimpant, tout satisfait, Prit la clef du champ de navets. Chez lui s’en étant revenu, Son chien ne l’a pas reconnu Et lui croque en deux coups de dents Un des os les plus importants. En guise de consolation, Pensa faire une libation, Boire un coup de vin généreux, Mais tous ses tonneaux sonnaient creux. Quand dans l’alcôve il est entré Embrasser sa veuve éplorée, Il jugea d’un simple coup d’œil Qu’elle ne portait plus son deuil. Il la trouve se réchauffant Avec un salaud de vivant; Alors chancelant dans sa foi Mourut une seconde fois. La commère au potron-minet Ramassa les os qui traînaient Et pour une bouchée de pain Les vendit à des carabins. Et, depuis lors, ce macchabée, Dans l’amphithéâtre tombé, Malheureux, poussiéreux, transi, Chante: «Ah! ce qu’on s’emmerde ici !» (bis) |
Quiet, comfortable, official, In one word residential, This was the graveyard where This idiot had his hole. As he did’t recognize The well-foundness of his demise, He wanted to do – what an aberration! – His little resurrection. The old dead, the old «Here lies», The good white sepulchre, Insisted to make him reassess his Decision but in vain. After polishing it, he took back His old anathomy, And full of life, well satisfied, Took the road outside the graveyard. Arriving home, His dog didn’t recognize him And he cracked with a couple of bites One of the most important bones. To console himself, He thought of a drink, To gulp a glass of generous wine, But his barrels sounded empty. When he entered his alcove To hug her distressed widow, He took notice at a glance That she was not in mourning. He found her warming up With a living scoundrel; Then losing all hope He died for a second time. The cleaning lady early morning Packed the bones scattered around And for a piece of bread She sold them to the medical students. And, since then, this dead man, Is in an amphitheatre, Unhappy, full of dust, stoned, He sings: «Ah! what a boring place here !» (bis) |