I arrived one morning in November
In a France still in black and white
With only the hope of selling
My negritude for a can of money
J was the son of the son of the Senegalese rifleman
The Banania in its broomstick version
The one who says: "Bwana, you can count on me
I will be the legs, the hand of works and arms!"
I toiled a whole life much more than reason
without Vivaldi to the rhythm of the four seasons
To earn my diploma as king of sweepers
A poverty wages, the noise and the smell
We didn't have the card and not the identity
Just the appearance and the right to shut up
We had almost nothing and almost no choice
That was the France of little Nicolas
I was born one beautiful April morning
In a very “Hands off my friend” France
br/>It smelled quite good of quiet strength
But there was a background noise of the sound of boots
I was the son of Homo jackhammer
The Negro Head in its Petit Beurre version
The one who says: "Sidi to be I will be
The Arab who hides the forest."
I answered "banco" when I was told integration
But it's more studies, no it's a marathon
If I grit my teeth, will I have the right to happiness?
And if I lower my head will I have look like a stubbler?
We just had the card but not the identity
Still the appearance and the right to shut up
We had almost nothing but nothing did about it
br/>That was the France of little Nicolas
What really matters is the day of my birth
My baptism is this can of gasoline
And this burning car a November morning
The identity card of a French youth
I am the son of the son of the one who has nothing left
The bad boy facing the karcher in his hand
br/>A Mesrine apprentice in short pants
Ready to draw at the slightest doubt
The good Negro and the Arab on duty are far away
the Auvergne, the good prototypes
Everything those who pray that there still exists
A life before death
What does the card or even the identity matter
When we have the appearance and the right to shut up
when we have almost nothing and nothing done for it
In the sweet France of little Nicolas
What does the card or even the identity matter
When we have the facies and the right to 'shut up
when we have almost nothing and nothing done for it
In the sweet France of little Nicolas
What does the card or even the identity matter
When we have him facies and the right to shut up
when we have almost nothing and nothing done for it
In the sweet France of little Nicolas
What does the card or even the identity matter
When we have the facies and the right to shut up
when we have almost nothing and nothing done for it
In the sweet France of little Nicolas

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS