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The songs of Prévert come back to me
Of all the worm blowers...wool
From old Ferré the cries of the storm
Boris Vian writes on the trumpet
Left Bank in Paris
Farewell my country
Of music and poetry
The merchants of misbegotten people
Who, moreover, have already taken everything
Come to sell their clothes in bookstores
In bookstores in bookstores
So tender is the night
It passes
Oh my Zelda it's over Montparnasse
Miles Davis ringing his bell Greco
All the mountains ring their Nico
Left Bank in Paris
Oh my island Oh my country
Of music and poetry
Of art and freedom to embrace
She was caught, she is taken
She is going to die no matter what anyone says
And my song melancholy
The life is theater and memories
And we are stubborn about not dying
Hanging out on the banks come and see
It looks like Jane and Serge on the Pont des Arts
Left Bank in Paris
Farewell my country
Farewell jazz farewell the night
A state in the state of mind
Treated with contempt
Like Quebec by the United States
Like us too
Ah! contempt ah! contempt