Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard,
But I think:
All bondage, up yours!
Yo, this is Bran Man giving a shout out to all the Paris suburbs,
All the London hounds, all the New York hound dogs,
And the NDG, misguided. You know it.
Ceci n'est pas un retour aux années 70,
Ceci n'est pas une chanson à répondre,
Ceci n'est pas une declaration d'amour ratée
Ceci n'est même pas une chanson.
Ceci n'est pas une arbre à grimper,
Ceci n'est pas un hommage a mon père,
Ceci n'est pas ma raison d'être, tabarnak
Ceci est une pomme, des nuages, deux pommes, mon visage.
Was the night before New Year's Eve,
I felt a curious desire for donuts,
I dragged my sorry ass to the city of Laval,
Where she drank from a Tim Horton's promo cup.
She read Paris Match by the toilet,
Some crap on John Holiday,
I tried desperately to avoid it,
But that's when she looked my sorry-ass way.
I say goodbye to your sorry-ass ways,
I say goodbye to your sorry-ass ways.
She said the space you stand in is not even space,
And the music not even song,
The sadness you see coming deep within me,
Has been your sadness all along.
So don't pretend to be so perfect,
I'm quite content in my travelling gear.
What you see is not just a coffee girl,
In spite of the fact, of the fact, that I'm not even here.
Sounds just like a foxfire.
C'est en tournant les pages du plus récent Paris Match
Que je me suis posé, proposé cette question:
Pourquoi?
Pourquoi? Trois points de suspension.
Why not, ostie.
Why not, ostie.
And the snow fell like crushed aspirin,
On that catholic holiday.
She left me sideways like a crooked lawyer,
Hungover as the one he played.
So don't pretend like you are with me,
Because I am thinking that there is no struggle,
But you put me up, got me up from the fungle,
'Cause there is no struggle in my sorry-ass way.
I say goodbye to X8
Say goodbye to your sorry-ass ways.
I say goodbye to
I say goodbye to
