They hug in January,
because a new year's beginning,
but for eons
France has't changed so much.
Days and weeks are passing,
only the decor is evolving,
the mentality is the same,
they're all losers, all half-assed.
They aren't much in February
to remember Charonne,
and the sworn bludgeoners
who fine-tuned their work.
France is a country of cops,
on every street corner they're hundred of them,
in order to bring public order,
they murder with impunity.
When in March is executed,
on the other side of the Pyrennes,
an anarchist of Basque Country,
to teach him to revolt,
they scream, they cry and they get indignant
about this squalid killing,
but they're forgetting that the guillotine
in our place also is still working.
To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,
that's not what's best currently,
and the King of the assholes, on his throne,
I wouldn't bet he is a German.
They were told, in April,
on TV, in the newspapers,
not to take one thread off,
that the spring is opening soon,
The old principles of sixteenth century,
and the old stupid traditions,
they apply it to the letter,
I pity them, all these idiots.
They remember, in May,
a blood that flowed red and black,
a failed revolution
which almost turned back the tide of history.
I remember above all these sheeps,
frightened by liberty, going to the polls by the millions,
for order and security
They commemorate in June,
a landing in Normandy,
they think about the brave Yankee soldier
who came to be killed far from home.
They forget that sheltered from bombs,
the French screamed : long live Pétain,
that some were comfortably hided in London,
that they was not a lot of Jean Moulin.
To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,
it's not the glory indeed
and the King of the assholes, on his throne,
don't you dare tell me he is a Portuguese.
They celebrate in July ,
in memory of a revolution
that has never cancelled
misery and exploitation.
They swill down popular dances,
fireworks and blare,
they think they can forgot in beer
that they are governed like pawns.
In August it's the liberty,
after a long year in the factory,
they scream : hurrah for the paid holiday;
they forget a little bit the engine.
In Spain, in Greece or in France,
they go to pollute the beaches,
and, by their mere presence,
ruin every landscape.
When in September is murdered
a people and a liberty
at the heart of Latine America,
they are not many to bawl.
An ambassador turns up,
he's welcomed with open arms,
fascism it's the blight,
in Santiago like in Paris.
To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,
it's really not a walk in the park,
and the King of the assholes, on his throne,
he's French, I'm sure of it.
Once the vendanges are finished in October,
the grape ferments in barrels,
they are very proud of their vineyards,
their Côtes-du-Rhône and their bordeaux.
They export the blood of the earth
almost everywhere abroad,
their plonk and their camembert
are their only glory, to these degenerates.
In November, at the Salon de l'auto,
they go by the thousands to admire
the very last model of Peugeot,
that they will never be able to buy.
Car, TV, trifecta
it's the opium of the people in France,
confiscate it it's killing him,
it's a drug with addiction.
In Decemebr, it's the pinnacle of achievment,
Great food and little presents,
they are always as gloomy as usual,
but there's some joy in the ghettos.
Earth can stop spinning,
they will not miss the Christmas Eve,
me, I'd like to see all of them die,
choking on the turkey with chestnut.
To be born under the sign of the Hexagon,
I cannot say it is boner-inspiring.
If the King of the assholes would lose his throne,
they would be fifty millions of prentenders.
Ospite 2016-02-03
Daniel Gaunt
Gio, 31/01/2019 - 21:17
*"The Hexagon" is a nickname refering to France, due to the fact that the three maritime coasts (Mediterrannean, Atlantic, and the Channel) and the three land border lines (South, East and Northeast) form an hexagon.
I'm sure I've made some mistakes, so if you have any suugestions, feel free to leave your comments, I would be very grateful.