![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Un jour le Diable vint sur terre pour surveiller ses intérêts
I am sick. It’s like con crud, only the timing is wrong for me to have picked it up at the RenFaire. So for the last couple days, mostly I have devoted my energies to sleeping, drinking quarts of tea, and watching the BBC adaptations of Strong Poison and Have His Carcase (1987; much better than I had expected). And in order to practice my French, I have been translating the songs of Jacques Brel to which I am currently listening. “La chanson de Jacky” turned up in yesterday’s meme and I felt honor-bound to translate it, after which the rest of the album looked sad and neglected. Naturally, I am now posting the results.
There will probably be several more over the next couple of days; it's a two-disc set. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fleurdelis28 for checking some of the more idiomatic bits, and feel free to comment on any mistranslations I may have made. My French is entirely self-taught, and there are enough bad translations in the world already.
(Cut for not-French.)
La chanson de Jacky (Jacky's Song)
Even if one day at Knocke-le-Zoute
I should become as I fear
A singer for washed-up women
Even if I should sing "Mi Corazon" to them
With the Bandoneón's voice
Of an Argentinian from Carcassonne
Even if they should call me Antonio
And I should burn my last fires
In exchange for some presents
Madame, I do what I can
Even if I should get drunk on hydromel
The better to speak of virility
To grandmothers decorated
Like Christmas trees
I know that in my drunkenness
Each night for the pink elephants
I will sing the sad song
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only
To be for one hour, one occasional hour
To be for one hour, nothing more than an hour
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and a total asshole
Even if one day in Macao
I should become a governor of dives
Surrounded by languid women
Even if I should, weary of being a singer
There become a master-singer
And it should be the others who sing
Even if they should call me handsome Serge
And I should sell boats of opium
Whiskey from Clermont-Ferrand
Real gays and fake virgins
And if I should have a bank on every finger
And a finger in every country
And every country should be mine
I know that even so, every night
All alone at the back of my opium den
For an audience of old Chinamen
I will sing again my song to myself
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only . . .
Even if one day in Paradise
I should become as I would be surprised to be
A singer for women with white wings
Even if I should sing hallelujahs to them
While regretting the times below
Where not every day is Sunday
Even if they should call me God the Father
The one who is in the directory
Between "God made it" and "God keep you"
Even if I should let myself grow a beard
Even if I should, always too good an apple
Break my heart and my pure spirit
With wanting to console humanity
I know that even so, every night
I will enter into my paradise
The angels, the saints, and Lucifer
Will sing me the song of the past
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only . . .
La valse à mille temps (The Waltz in Thousand-Time)
At the beginning of the waltz
All by yourself, you already smile
At the beginning of the waltz
I am alone, but I notice you
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Murmurs, murmurs very softly to me
A waltz in triple time
Which still offers the time
Which still offers the time
To afford detours
To the coast of love
It is so charming
A waltz in quadruple time
Is much harder to dance
Is much harder to dance
But just as charming
As a waltz in triple time
A waltz in quadruple time
A waltz in twenty-time
It's much more troubling
It's much more troubling
But much more charming
Than a waltz in triple time
A waltz in twenty-time
A waltz in hundred-time
A waltz in a hundred years
A waltz is heard
At every crossroads
In Paris, which love
Refreshes in the springtime
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in put-it time
To wait for twenty years
Until you are twenty
Until I am twenty
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
Only offers to lovers
Three hundred and thirty-three times the time
In the second part of the waltz
We are two, you are in my arms
In the second part of the waltz
We both count one, two, three
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Already hums, hums to us
A waltz in triple time . . .
In the third part of the waltz
Finally, all three of us dance
In the third part of the waltz
There's you, there's love, and there's me
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Finally lets its joy explode
A waltz in triple time . . .
Ne me quitte pas (Don't Leave Me)
Don't leave me
We must forget
Everything can be forgotten
Forget the time
That already runs away
Of misunderstandings
And the lost time
With the knowledge of how
To forget those hours
That sometimes died
From asking why
In the heart of happiness
Don't leave me
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
Myself, I will bring you
Pearls of rain
Come from lands
Where it doesn't rain
I will dig the earth
Even after my death
To cover your body
With gold and light
I will build an empire
Where love will be king
Where love will be law
Where you will be queen
Don't leave me . . .
Don't leave me
I will invent for you
Nonsense words
That you will understand
I will speak to you
Of those lovers then
Who twice saw
Their hearts kindle
I will tell you
The story of that king
Who died from not having
Met you
Don't leave me . . .
One often sees
The fire splash up anew
From an ancient volcano
Which one believed was too old
It is said
Of burned lands
They give more wheat
Than a better April
And when evening comes
To set the sky alight
The red and the black
Don't they marry?
Don't leave me . . .
Don't leave me
I won't weep anymore
I won't speak anymore
I will hide here
To watch you
Dance and smile
And to hear you
Sing and then laugh
Let me become
The shadow of your shadow
The shadow of your hand
The shadow of your dog, only
Don't leave me . . .
Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who sing
Of the dreams that haunt them far from Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who sleep
Like pennants along the dismal banks
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who die
Full of beer and tragedy, at first light
But in the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who are born
In the dense heat of ocean languors
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who eat
Shining-wet fish on too-white tablecloths
They show you their teeth, to bite fortune
To unhook the moon, to gobble the mast-ropes
And there is a smell of cod deep into the fries
Which their thick hands invite to come back for more
Then they get up laughing with the noise of a storm
They close up their flies and leave belching
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who dance
Rubbing their bellies against the bellies of women
And they turn and they dance like spit-out suns
To the ripped-up sound of a rancid accordion
They twist up their necks the better to hear themselves laugh
Until all of a sudden the accordion dies
With a grave gesture, with a proud look
They bring their Batavians out into the plain light
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who drink
And who drink and who drink and who drink once again
They drink to the health of the whores of Amsterdam
Of Hamburg and elsewhere, in short, they drink to the ladies
Who give them their fine bodies, who give them their virtue
For a piece of gold—and when they have had enough
They plant their noses in the sky and blow them on the stars
And they piss like I cry over the unfaithful women
In the port of Amsterdam, in the port of Amsterdam
La bière (Beer)
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer, God, it's good
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer—give me your hand
It's full of Eulenspiegel
And his cousins
And distant cousins
Of ancient Breughel
It's full of the north wind
Which bites like a dog
The port which sleeps
With a full belly
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of full glasses
Which go to the fair
As to mass there go
Old women in the morning
It's full of dead days
And frozen loves
Where we are, it's only in summer
That girls have bodies
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of old men
Who nurse their memories
In wetting with laughter
Their white mustaches
It's full of debutants
Who nurse their pox
In dancing about
To "Prosit!" and "Skol!"
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of "Goddammit!"
It's full of Amsterdam
It's full of men's hands
On women's rumps
It's full of grandmothers
Who have had since forever
One breast for beer
One breast for love
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of horizons
To drive you mad
But alcohol's blond
The devil's with us
People without Spain
Have a need for the two
You make mountains
With whatever you can
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer—give me your hand
Les Flamandes (Flemish Women)
Flemish women dance without saying anything
Without saying anything on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without saying anything
Flemish women, they just don't talk
If they dance, it's because they're twenty years old
And at twenty years old, they must get engaged
They get engaged to get married
And they get married to have children
It's what their parents tell them
The beadle and His Eminence the same
The bishop who preaches at the convent
And it's for this, and it's for this they dance
Flemish women dance without shivering
Without shivering on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without shivering
Flemish women, they just don't shiver
If they dance, it’s because they're thirty years old
And at thirty years old, it's good to show
That all is well and the children are growing
And the hops and the wheat in the meadow
They are the pride of their parents
And the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who preaches at the convent
And it’s for this, and it’s for this they dance
Flemish women dance without smiling
Without smiling on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without smiling
Flemish women, they just don't smile
If they dance, it's because they're seventy years old
At seventy years old, it's good to show
That all is well and the grandchildren are growing
And the hops and the wheat in the meadow
All dressed in black like their parents
Like the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who rambles on at the convent
They inherit and it's for this they dance
Flemish women dance without yielding
Without yielding on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without yielding
Flemish women, they just don't yield
If they dance, it’s because they’re a hundred years old
And at a hundred years old, it's good to show
That all is well and their feet are still good
And so are the hops and the wheat in the meadow
They go to meet their parents
And the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who rests at the convent
And it's for this they dance one last time
Les bourgeois (The Bourgeois)
Our hearts good and warm
Our eyes on our beer
At fat Adrienne de Montalant's
With my friend Jojo
And my friend Pierre
We went to drink up our twenty years
Jojo took himself for Voltaire
Pierre for Casanova
And I, who was the proudest
I took myself for me
And when around midnight there passed the lawyers
Coming out of the Three Pheasants Hotel
We showed them our asses and our good manners
And we sang to them
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get dumber
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get—
Our hearts good and warm
Our eyes on our beer
At fat Adrienne de Montalant's
With my friend Jojo
And my friend Pierre
We went to burn up our twenty years
Voltaire danced like a vicar
And Casanova didn't dare
And I, who remained the proudest
I was almost as drunk as me
And when around midnight there passed the lawyers
Coming out of the Three Pheasants Hotel
We showed them our asses and our good manners
And we sang to them
The bourgeois, they're like pigs . . .
Our hearts at rest
Our eyes down to earth
At the bar of the Three Pheasants Hotel
With master Jojo
And master Pierre
Among lawyers, we pass the time
Jojo speaks of Voltaire
And Pierre of Casanova
And I, who am still the proudest
I still talk about me
And as we leave around midnight, Mr. Chief of Police
Every evening at Montalant's
The young deadbeats show us their behinds
And they sing to us
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get dumber
They say, Mr. Chief of Police
The bourgeois
As they get older, they get—
Je suis un soir d’été (I Am A Summer Evening)
And the sub-prefecture
Is throwing a party for the sub-prefect's wife
Under the faceted light
It rains orangeade
And warm champagne
And the icy remarks
Of the sullen females
Of state employees
I am a summer evening
At opened windows
The familial diners
Push back their plates
And say it's warm
The men let out belches
Like German knights
The tablecloths fall in crumbs
Over the balconies
I am a summer evening
On crowded terraces
Some sweating drinkers
Talk about harridans
And treacherous old women
It's the hour when suspenders
Hold up the present
Of scattered passers-by
And alcoholics
I am a summer evening
Heavy passionate women
In a smell of cooking
Parade their breasts
Down the slopes of the Meuse
They are looking for a soldier
To make the summer live it up
And rise somehow or other
Higher than their stockings
I am a summer evening
At the fountains, the old men
Bards of references
Brush up on their childhood
With little rainy steps
They laugh with all of one tooth
To crunch the silence
Around the girls who dance
To the death of spring
I am a summer evening
The heat is its own spine
A river of drunkenness
The summer has its grand masses
And the night celebrates them
To the four winds, the city
Flashes its regrets
Useless and busy
That it's not a port
I am a summer evening
There will probably be several more over the next couple of days; it's a two-disc set. Thanks to
fleurdelis28 for checking some of the more idiomatic bits, and feel free to comment on any mistranslations I may have made. My French is entirely self-taught, and there are enough bad translations in the world already.(Cut for not-French.)
La chanson de Jacky (Jacky's Song)
Even if one day at Knocke-le-Zoute
I should become as I fear
A singer for washed-up women
Even if I should sing "Mi Corazon" to them
With the Bandoneón's voice
Of an Argentinian from Carcassonne
Even if they should call me Antonio
And I should burn my last fires
In exchange for some presents
Madame, I do what I can
Even if I should get drunk on hydromel
The better to speak of virility
To grandmothers decorated
Like Christmas trees
I know that in my drunkenness
Each night for the pink elephants
I will sing the sad song
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only
To be for one hour, one occasional hour
To be for one hour, nothing more than an hour
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and a total asshole
Even if one day in Macao
I should become a governor of dives
Surrounded by languid women
Even if I should, weary of being a singer
There become a master-singer
And it should be the others who sing
Even if they should call me handsome Serge
And I should sell boats of opium
Whiskey from Clermont-Ferrand
Real gays and fake virgins
And if I should have a bank on every finger
And a finger in every country
And every country should be mine
I know that even so, every night
All alone at the back of my opium den
For an audience of old Chinamen
I will sing again my song to myself
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only . . .
Even if one day in Paradise
I should become as I would be surprised to be
A singer for women with white wings
Even if I should sing hallelujahs to them
While regretting the times below
Where not every day is Sunday
Even if they should call me God the Father
The one who is in the directory
Between "God made it" and "God keep you"
Even if I should let myself grow a beard
Even if I should, always too good an apple
Break my heart and my pure spirit
With wanting to console humanity
I know that even so, every night
I will enter into my paradise
The angels, the saints, and Lucifer
Will sing me the song of the past
Of that time when I was called Jacky
To be for one hour, one hour only . . .
La valse à mille temps (The Waltz in Thousand-Time)
At the beginning of the waltz
All by yourself, you already smile
At the beginning of the waltz
I am alone, but I notice you
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Murmurs, murmurs very softly to me
A waltz in triple time
Which still offers the time
Which still offers the time
To afford detours
To the coast of love
It is so charming
A waltz in quadruple time
Is much harder to dance
Is much harder to dance
But just as charming
As a waltz in triple time
A waltz in quadruple time
A waltz in twenty-time
It's much more troubling
It's much more troubling
But much more charming
Than a waltz in triple time
A waltz in twenty-time
A waltz in hundred-time
A waltz in a hundred years
A waltz is heard
At every crossroads
In Paris, which love
Refreshes in the springtime
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in put-it time
To wait for twenty years
Until you are twenty
Until I am twenty
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
A waltz in thousand-time
Only offers to lovers
Three hundred and thirty-three times the time
In the second part of the waltz
We are two, you are in my arms
In the second part of the waltz
We both count one, two, three
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Already hums, hums to us
A waltz in triple time . . .
In the third part of the waltz
Finally, all three of us dance
In the third part of the waltz
There's you, there's love, and there's me
And Paris, which keeps time
Paris, which measures our excitement
And Paris, which keeps time
Finally lets its joy explode
A waltz in triple time . . .
Ne me quitte pas (Don't Leave Me)
Don't leave me
We must forget
Everything can be forgotten
Forget the time
That already runs away
Of misunderstandings
And the lost time
With the knowledge of how
To forget those hours
That sometimes died
From asking why
In the heart of happiness
Don't leave me
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
Myself, I will bring you
Pearls of rain
Come from lands
Where it doesn't rain
I will dig the earth
Even after my death
To cover your body
With gold and light
I will build an empire
Where love will be king
Where love will be law
Where you will be queen
Don't leave me . . .
Don't leave me
I will invent for you
Nonsense words
That you will understand
I will speak to you
Of those lovers then
Who twice saw
Their hearts kindle
I will tell you
The story of that king
Who died from not having
Met you
Don't leave me . . .
One often sees
The fire splash up anew
From an ancient volcano
Which one believed was too old
It is said
Of burned lands
They give more wheat
Than a better April
And when evening comes
To set the sky alight
The red and the black
Don't they marry?
Don't leave me . . .
Don't leave me
I won't weep anymore
I won't speak anymore
I will hide here
To watch you
Dance and smile
And to hear you
Sing and then laugh
Let me become
The shadow of your shadow
The shadow of your hand
The shadow of your dog, only
Don't leave me . . .
Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who sing
Of the dreams that haunt them far from Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who sleep
Like pennants along the dismal banks
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who die
Full of beer and tragedy, at first light
But in the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who are born
In the dense heat of ocean languors
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who eat
Shining-wet fish on too-white tablecloths
They show you their teeth, to bite fortune
To unhook the moon, to gobble the mast-ropes
And there is a smell of cod deep into the fries
Which their thick hands invite to come back for more
Then they get up laughing with the noise of a storm
They close up their flies and leave belching
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who dance
Rubbing their bellies against the bellies of women
And they turn and they dance like spit-out suns
To the ripped-up sound of a rancid accordion
They twist up their necks the better to hear themselves laugh
Until all of a sudden the accordion dies
With a grave gesture, with a proud look
They bring their Batavians out into the plain light
In the port of Amsterdam, there are sailors who drink
And who drink and who drink and who drink once again
They drink to the health of the whores of Amsterdam
Of Hamburg and elsewhere, in short, they drink to the ladies
Who give them their fine bodies, who give them their virtue
For a piece of gold—and when they have had enough
They plant their noses in the sky and blow them on the stars
And they piss like I cry over the unfaithful women
In the port of Amsterdam, in the port of Amsterdam
La bière (Beer)
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer, God, it's good
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer—give me your hand
It's full of Eulenspiegel
And his cousins
And distant cousins
Of ancient Breughel
It's full of the north wind
Which bites like a dog
The port which sleeps
With a full belly
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of full glasses
Which go to the fair
As to mass there go
Old women in the morning
It's full of dead days
And frozen loves
Where we are, it's only in summer
That girls have bodies
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of old men
Who nurse their memories
In wetting with laughter
Their white mustaches
It's full of debutants
Who nurse their pox
In dancing about
To "Prosit!" and "Skol!"
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of "Goddammit!"
It's full of Amsterdam
It's full of men's hands
On women's rumps
It's full of grandmothers
Who have had since forever
One breast for beer
One breast for love
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin . . .
It's full of horizons
To drive you mad
But alcohol's blond
The devil's with us
People without Spain
Have a need for the two
You make mountains
With whatever you can
There’s a smell of beer from London to Berlin
There’s a smell of beer—give me your hand
Les Flamandes (Flemish Women)
Flemish women dance without saying anything
Without saying anything on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without saying anything
Flemish women, they just don't talk
If they dance, it's because they're twenty years old
And at twenty years old, they must get engaged
They get engaged to get married
And they get married to have children
It's what their parents tell them
The beadle and His Eminence the same
The bishop who preaches at the convent
And it's for this, and it's for this they dance
Flemish women dance without shivering
Without shivering on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without shivering
Flemish women, they just don't shiver
If they dance, it’s because they're thirty years old
And at thirty years old, it's good to show
That all is well and the children are growing
And the hops and the wheat in the meadow
They are the pride of their parents
And the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who preaches at the convent
And it’s for this, and it’s for this they dance
Flemish women dance without smiling
Without smiling on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without smiling
Flemish women, they just don't smile
If they dance, it's because they're seventy years old
At seventy years old, it's good to show
That all is well and the grandchildren are growing
And the hops and the wheat in the meadow
All dressed in black like their parents
Like the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who rambles on at the convent
They inherit and it's for this they dance
Flemish women dance without yielding
Without yielding on ringing Sundays
Flemish women dance without yielding
Flemish women, they just don't yield
If they dance, it’s because they’re a hundred years old
And at a hundred years old, it's good to show
That all is well and their feet are still good
And so are the hops and the wheat in the meadow
They go to meet their parents
And the beadle and His Eminence
And the bishop who rests at the convent
And it's for this they dance one last time
Les bourgeois (The Bourgeois)
Our hearts good and warm
Our eyes on our beer
At fat Adrienne de Montalant's
With my friend Jojo
And my friend Pierre
We went to drink up our twenty years
Jojo took himself for Voltaire
Pierre for Casanova
And I, who was the proudest
I took myself for me
And when around midnight there passed the lawyers
Coming out of the Three Pheasants Hotel
We showed them our asses and our good manners
And we sang to them
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get dumber
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get—
Our hearts good and warm
Our eyes on our beer
At fat Adrienne de Montalant's
With my friend Jojo
And my friend Pierre
We went to burn up our twenty years
Voltaire danced like a vicar
And Casanova didn't dare
And I, who remained the proudest
I was almost as drunk as me
And when around midnight there passed the lawyers
Coming out of the Three Pheasants Hotel
We showed them our asses and our good manners
And we sang to them
The bourgeois, they're like pigs . . .
Our hearts at rest
Our eyes down to earth
At the bar of the Three Pheasants Hotel
With master Jojo
And master Pierre
Among lawyers, we pass the time
Jojo speaks of Voltaire
And Pierre of Casanova
And I, who am still the proudest
I still talk about me
And as we leave around midnight, Mr. Chief of Police
Every evening at Montalant's
The young deadbeats show us their behinds
And they sing to us
The bourgeois, they're like pigs
As they get older, they get dumber
They say, Mr. Chief of Police
The bourgeois
As they get older, they get—
Je suis un soir d’été (I Am A Summer Evening)
And the sub-prefecture
Is throwing a party for the sub-prefect's wife
Under the faceted light
It rains orangeade
And warm champagne
And the icy remarks
Of the sullen females
Of state employees
I am a summer evening
At opened windows
The familial diners
Push back their plates
And say it's warm
The men let out belches
Like German knights
The tablecloths fall in crumbs
Over the balconies
I am a summer evening
On crowded terraces
Some sweating drinkers
Talk about harridans
And treacherous old women
It's the hour when suspenders
Hold up the present
Of scattered passers-by
And alcoholics
I am a summer evening
Heavy passionate women
In a smell of cooking
Parade their breasts
Down the slopes of the Meuse
They are looking for a soldier
To make the summer live it up
And rise somehow or other
Higher than their stockings
I am a summer evening
At the fountains, the old men
Bards of references
Brush up on their childhood
With little rainy steps
They laugh with all of one tooth
To crunch the silence
Around the girls who dance
To the death of spring
I am a summer evening
The heat is its own spine
A river of drunkenness
The summer has its grand masses
And the night celebrates them
To the four winds, the city
Flashes its regrets
Useless and busy
That it's not a port
I am a summer evening
no subject
As for "Seasons In the Sun"...I'll have to dig that out too! It's sugary, twee, and given to key shifting, and was a gigantic hit. It's been covered in a sarcastic manner several times. Back inthe days of vinyl analog disks I actually had a copy of the entire album. It was hideous.
no subject
ETA: I found lyrics! Here! Soul Asylum's version, and I don't think this is quite what Terry wrote, but hey...
no subject
She yelled at the store
Cause my doggie's been hit by a car
And I do want to bring him home something
Put the bone in
She yelled out once more ...
*blink*
Thank you; I shall now work on not thinking about this song . . .
no subject
no subject
no subject
I have useless talents . . . You're welcome. I always worry with translations that if I've made them sound like poetry, they've stopped sounding like the original and started sounding too much like me; so this is a very good thing to hear. Thank you.