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Angel
By The Sons of Mandrin
By The Sons of Mandrin
A mop of hair in the forest
On eyes like stars,
The law twisting our destiny!
br/>The breast on the switch
Under a rascally smile,
We are highwaymen!
Cathedral faces
On bohemian feet;
The fanfare of Master Larcin
Who until the last role,
The stomach in lent,
Heavy crowns on those who are hungry!
br/>Hey! Take care of your head
If a pretty heart smells petty...
Then your party would come;
Sworn! By the sons of Mandrin!
To live by hunting,
To live by fishing,
Little poachers of the morning!
It is never too late to beat the iron,
Swear! By the sons of Mandrin!
Sworn! By the sons of Mandrin!
Sworn! By the sons of Mandrin!
[Words: Christian Décamps - Editions Warner Chappell 1976]