Margot

From afar you look, flashy and shameless,
born in the misery of a slum convent...
Because there's something about you that sells, I don't know if it's the look,
the way you sit, look, stand
or that body used to cheap clothes.
That body that now marks the tempting beats
of the swagger of some tango in the arms of some fool,
while your silhouette triumphs and your colorful dress,
amidst the smoke of cigars and the champagne of Armenonville.

It's nonsense, it wasn't a brave scoundrel or a bully
or a pimp with issues who got you into vice...
You rolled because of your own fault and it wasn't innocent...
fancy ideas that you had in mind
since the day a rich snob sharpened you!

I remember, you had almost nothing to wear,
now you wear silk lingerie with rococo roses,
I can't stand your presence... I'd pay not to see you...
even your name has changed as your luck has changed:
you're no longer my Margarita, now they call you Margot!

Now you go with the suckers to have a good time
in a luxurious private room at Petit or Julien,
and your old lady, poor old lady! washes all week
just to put food on the table, with Franciscan poverty,
in the sad tenement lit by kerosene.