Jacques Bertin - The girl whose whom

Original title: "La fille dont auquelle"
Year: 1985
This song is parody, mocking the way some people talk so I tried to translate the deliberate errors the best I could.

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course but that naturally

It's the daughter of the boss where I work
Why she doesn't like me I do not know
Because despite I am not the good-looker
I am decent and even rather fine
It's a thing that it'd be fine
To go away, her and me, just us both
But as there are the social barriers
It can't be, it's unfortunate

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

I consider that she doesn't care if I exist
She doesn't pay me at all attention
Would it be that I am only an underling
I would note that she has some pretension
It's because of being too poor, it's likely
Not everyone can call themselves differently
I only have a moped and even that when the weather is fine
And if it want like to start even more, it's pathetic

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

If it's like that, it's not without good reason
It's this which reiterates my father
"It's the same. Me, I loved his mother, right?
We are being scorned, it's not from yesterday"
Okay, well, let's admit she'd have come over at my place
For some or other argument,
A paper or something,
It has been seen: She knocks, I open, there is an embarassed silence

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Her oppressive breathing would beat like a tv wire
I opened the arms in a waiting to such extent that she would haved shouted
Caught up by the demons of the flesh
Bewitched by the mysteries of the charm
We rolled on the bed and on the ground
Intertwined like an alarm signal

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Me, I like the defenseless gazelle
When their big eyes shout "Zero to the juice!"
She would have had her pleasures of the senses
On that side I am not too bad either
Then at that point maybe she loves me
And that we would married what do we know
And I would becoming the husband that she herself
It was the one I just chattted to you about

Here is well the girl whose to whom
she is my wife and I the spouse
I am the assistant manager
By the fact itself which of which
By the fact itself which of which

Jacques Bertin - The Degenerates

Original Title: "Les Tarés"
Year: 1985

I would tell you, I would tell you
With my usual care about forms
"Let's love Madam!"
Or with the frozen gaze
"Undress"
Or again because I would certaintly be merciless
I would whisper with an imperceptible voice
"Insult me"
You would comply like a solo in a baroq score
We would despise one another of course without believing it
To reach that
It'd be good

We would give us the impression of coming out right ouf the memoirs
of a couple of notorious freaks in Locarno
In nighteen hundred twenty three.

I would be inflexible and pale like a Carpathian prince
having fled in the wagons of the white russians, the hell of the Bolsheviks
After having played piano, badly for that matter, in the burning winter palace
With the last band of night owls and hysterics

You would be the former mistress of a latino-bulgarian party head
The day when he would have had been killed, you would have had been on vacation in Ibiza
Then you would have become receptionist in the great Post of Tarbes
and girlfriend of the minister of cults in Rabat.

Of a scaringly dishonesty, suffice to say, you'd would be
But so fragile.
Noone has ever loved me would be your motto, people would believe it.
You would have on your face of early hours effects of frights
Like towns
And in your head vast deserts where melancholy would make islands

Me with my silences long like stations' quays.
covered by scathing and sweet words like great fast trains
I would be suspected of having I do not know what great rare talent
The oracle would be expected to talk
And he would wait for the rumor to stop

Never withdrawing in front of those big wallets
with their calm mornings look
You would throw yourself in the last stage of your tour of the future
A real mariage with a gifted énarque very dull very stupid
and very brave on whom you will cheat with young bragging gays
and old men from the Académie

You will reappear every now and then, demanding that I make myself clear
You will provide arguments like: "Prove me that you do not love me"
We would then subject ourselves to the penultimate insults, pathetics
Saving ourselves always a last one for next time.

I'd act ruthlessly because I'll have to act ruthlessly
I'd sublet you in public auctions and you will like that
Forward for the scenaros, the low-angle shots, the mystical obscenities
And we would lock ourselves like every time in our right fix

Twisted, twisted as you are
One day that we were giving each others forfeits
And I commanded you to show yourself naked at the opera
You more subtly demanded from me, that I commit to
write a song for people to see
how I am and do not believe it.

Jacques Bertin - Baudelaire - Invitation to travel

Sang by J. Bertin
Text: Charles Baudelaire (1857)
Year: 1957 (Ferré's version), 1985 (Bertin's version)

Keith Waldrop's translation (not mine)

Child, Sister, think how sweet to go out there and live together! To love at leisure, love and die in that land that resembles you! For me, damp suns in disturbed skies share mysterious charms with your treacherous eyes as they shine through tears.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

Gleaming furniture, polished by years passing, would ornate our bedroom; rarest flowers, their odors vaguely mixed with amber; rich ceilings; deep mirrors; an Oriental splendor—everything there would address our souls, privately, in their sweet native tongue.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

See on these canals those sleeping boats whose mood is vagabond; it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end. —Setting suns reclothe fields, the canals, the whole town, in hyacinth and gold; the world falling asleep in a warm light.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

My translation:

My child, my sister, think about the sweetness of going out there and live together!
To love at leisure, to love and die in that land that resembles you!
The wet suns of those scrambled skies for my mind have the charms
So mysterious of your treacherous eyes shining through their tears.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Gleaming furniture, polished by the years, would ornate our bedroom;
the rarest flowers, mixing their odors with the vague scents of the amber
The rich ceilings; the deep mirrors; the Oriental splendor
everything there would speak to the soul, in secret, in their sweet native tongue.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

See on these canals sleeping those boats whose mood is vagabond;
it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end.
—Setting suns embellish the fields, the canals, the whole town,
in hyacinth and gold; the world is falling asleep in a warm light.
There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Léo Ferré's version:

Jacques Bertin - Ballad

Original Title: "Ballade"
Year: 1985

It's nothing more than a detail, a detail
The moon is above the pond
I only have a very ordinary life
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me

By turns,
I listen to the night
I listen to the wind getting lost
A shouting weathercock
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me

Creaks, chuckles, smokes the night
Time will pass, I have time
Branches to branches, the oblivion climbs up
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me

Lonely and cold companion
The moon is above the pond
I only have a very ordinary life
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me
At the end of everything, nothing is wainting for me