The rupins go away, in the summer,
To the sea baths, each on their own,
To breathe in freedom
And r' take breath.
I can't afford sea bathing:
For my six, I'm taking the railway
And I'm going to take a breath of air
In the Bois d'Vincennes.
You hardly see any pimps there;
There are a few rentiers, around the lake,
Who bring about their stomach ache
And their belly;
But when the summer comes,
There are workers, in abundance,
Who comes to prop them up, on the grass,
In the Bois d'Vincennes.
Also in the evening, when they have left,
We found chicken necks rô tis,
Remains of assorted desserts
And porcelain;
Sardin's boxes, litrons
Empty or broken, pieces of lemons ,
Little jornals and turds
In the Bois d'Vincennes.
Then through the cabbage cores
We see large red cannoniers
And the very little tricksters
That have nothing to do with luck,
For, with triumphant airs,
They go, with the children's dolls,
Into the little corners, sit in them,
In the Bois d'Vincennes.
An hour later, under the massifs,
It's the purotins of the fortifs
Who slipped, with fearful airs,
Into the warren,
The poor beggars without fire or place,
Who found something to make a good stake,
br/>Under the caressing eye of the good Lord,
In the Bois d’Vincennes.

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