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They kiss in the month of January, Because a new year is beginning,
But for an eternity now France has not changed that much.
The days and the weeks go by, Only the setting evolves,
The mindset is the same: All losers, all phoneys.
In February they don't bother, To remember the dead of Charonne, Or the sworn-in thugs
Who took pride in their job,
France is a country of cops, A hundred on every street corner,
To make public order rule They assassinate unpunished.
When you execute in the month of March, On the other side of the Pyrenees,
An anarchist from the Basque country, To teach him to revolt,
They scream, they cry, and they get mad At this hideous putting to death,
But they forget that the guillotine Still works here too.
To be born at the sign of the hexagon, It's not the best thing to do right now,
And the king of the jerks, on his throne, I wouldn't bet that he's German.
In July they celebrate In memory of a revolution
Which never eliminated Misery and exploitation,
They soak up the street dances, The fireworks and the fancy things,
They think with beer they'll forget That they're governed like pawns.
In August it's freedom, After a long year in the factory,
They cry, "Long live paid holidays!" They forget the machine a little,
To be born at the sign of the hexagon, You can't say it's hot stuff
If the king of jerks lost his throne There'd be 50 million pretenders.