Je Hais Les Dimanches

Every day of the week
Is empty and feels hollow
Worse than the weekdays
Is that pretentious Sunday
Trying to look all rosy
And act all generous
Sunday that imposes itself
As a blessed day

I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!

In the street, there's a crowd
Millions of passersby
This crowd flows
With an indifferent air
This crowd walks
Like it's a funeral
The funeral of a Sunday
That died long ago

I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!

You work all week and on Sundays too
Maybe that's why I'm biased
Honey, if only you were near me
I'd be ready to love everything I don't like

Spring Sundays
All drenched in sunshine
That wipe away with their shine
The worries from the day before
Sunday full of blue skies
And children's laughter
Of lovers' strolls
With shy promises

And flowers on the branches
And flowers on the branches

And among the chaos
Of people, who, without rushing
Walk through the streets
We'd slip away
Just the two of us, hand in hand
Not caring to know
What tomorrow will bring
Having only the hope

Of more Sundays
Of more Sundays

And all the honest folks
Who are said to be good-minded
And those who aren't
But want us to believe it
And who go to church
Because it's the custom
Who change their shirts
And put on a nice suit
Those who sleep twenty hours
Because nothing stops them
Those who wake up early
To go fishing
Those for whom it's the day
To go to the cemetery
And those who make love
Because they have nothing to do
Would envy our happiness
Just like I envy theirs
To have Sundays
To believe in Sundays
To love Sundays
When I hate Sundays.