Mon vieux

In his old worn overcoat
He would go in winter, in summer
In the chilly early morning, my old man
There was only one Sunday per week
The other days, it was the grind
He would earn a living as best he could, my old man
In the summer, we would go see the sea
You see, it wasn't misery
It wasn't paradise either
Oh well, too bad
In his old worn overcoat
For years, he took
The same suburban bus, my old man
In the evening coming back from work
He would sit down without saying a word
He was the silent type, my old man
Sundays were monotonous
We never had visitors
It didn't make him unhappy
I think, my old man
In his old worn overcoat
On payday when he came back
We would hear him grumble a bit, my old man
We knew the song
Everything was in it, bourgeois, bosses
The left, the right, even God, with my old man
At home, we didn't have a TV
I would go outside to find
For a few hours, some escape
I know, it's silly!
To think I spent years
Next to him without looking at him
We barely opened our eyes, the two of us
I could have, it wasn't smart
Walk a bit of the way with him
It might have made him happy, my old man
But when you're just fifteen
You don't have a heart big enough
To hold all those things, you see
Now that he's far from here
Thinking about all that, I say to myself:
I wish he was near me, DAD...