I was born in the street, well let's say
That the tomato erased the grass
And the Champagne was Fanta
The days of celebration at the table were just that
A street that was not the Beaux Arts
Where Muhammad Ali knocked out Mozart
Where frying is to friend Schubert
What “You’re dead” is to Petit Robert
Street of girls who didn't want us
You're curly and there are lice in your hair
It's a hat that teaches us that
Here the heads didn't need a comb
Chorus
Pass the life, pass the time
Pass the life, pass the caravan and yet
And yet pass
Pass the life passes the caravan and passes
Pass the caravan and then life, passes
Pass life passes the caravan and passes
Time...
I was born in the street, not in the worst
Where cavities prevent you from smiling
Where newborns joined the dance
Because every day we celebrated a birth
Here you catch a cold and you 'in laughter
Here winter has eaten the carpentry
So one rule: if you are born, "be robust"
No Caliméro to say "it's too unfair"
Street where the fire, they were jealous women
Not consoled by the Andalusian guitars
At fourteen, the girls dreamed of being mothers
Pilgrimages to Saintes Maries de la Mer
Chorus
Pass the life, pass the time
Pass the life, pass the caravan
It wasn't the alley, it was rue des cameaux
A dead end where "I I love you" was a big tip
Where the first names, you can check it
Are not the ones you find in calendars
Not the street of Latin variations
We was called, guess? Thing, Machine
And copper, scrap metal and even zinc
Were the only display in the stores
And as the other said "Long live France"
Drive Peugeot 102, without insurance
Street of "if you're not from here I'll escort you"
Unless you sell your Ford Escort.
Chorus
Pass it life, pass the time
Pass the life, pass the caravan

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