Les Amis de George

George's friends were a bit rebellious
They drank cheap red wine and strummed their guitars
They all seemed to come from the same family
Shy and lewd and tender with the girls
They had seen the war or were born after
And had ended up in Saint-Germain-des-Prés
And if they sometimes happened to work
No one would have lost their life to earn a living
George's friends had long hair
At the time it wasn't yet in season
They knew Verlaine, Hugo, François Villon
Before they were locked in vinyl grooves
They swore, they cursed, insulted the bourgeois
But knew how to give flowers to the girls of joy
Even poaching them in public gardens
Playing hide-and-seek with the shadow of the cops
George's friends, they were recognizable
By their way of not being too rushed
To conform and become someone
They went through life like harlequins
Some have remained so, others have disappeared
Some even have the Legion of Honor - who would have thought?
But most of them haven't changed a bit
They still wander with their heads in the stars
George's friends haven't aged much
Seeing them, you'd think they had rejuvenated
Hair is longer, the guitar still there
It's still George who sets the tone
But just like him, they still don't know
How to join the herd or march in step
In the streets of Paris, on the roads of the province
They sometimes beg with airs of princes
Singing songs by the so-called Brassens