La Vieille

I don't need you to pack my clothes
Get out, you're in my way, says the old lady, jumping
Feet together on her suitcase, she looked like Popeye
She still had the flexibility of bees

And with a determined step towards the Saint-Lazare station
While we pretended to cry over her departure
She was leaving cheerfully, her bag in hand
With two or three breaks to ease her back

I don't need you, she tells the conductor
To carry my suitcase, I’ll be done in a quarter hour
The hospice is in the suburbs, they say it’s a castle
Where the old folks play Scrabble and little horses

I can't stand that, do you understand, sir?
I only like westerns with lots of gunfire
I've seen 'The Hellish Ride' fourteen times
I’d tell you all about it, but we’ve arrived

I don't need you, she tells the nurse
To unfold my sheets, leave me be, I’ve got things to do
Then from her suitcase, out of sight
She pulled out twenty bottles of a famous wine

She went down to the lounge where the old men and women
Were playing little horses while scratching their ears
Good evening, gentlemen, ladies, my name is Fanchon
Would one of you happen to have a corkscrew?

I don't need you, she tells the doctor
Lifting her third glass of wine towards him
While the old folks around the clock
Sang in four voices about Dudule's big dick

And we witnessed this delightful sight
Of eighty old-timers leaving the establishment
To scour the hospices of the country
Snatching the dying from death's surprise

I don't need you, she tells the priest
Who was struggling to pray by an old man's side
You can see this corpse isn’t dead

If he’s not breathing, he’s still hard
A little handjob will get him back on his feet
Like cranking a handle on an old Juva 4
The priest, horrified, fell back with arms crossed
He was still breathing, but he wasn’t hard

I don't need you, all the old folks shouted
Every time a politician wanted to help them
Because you didn’t know how to take care of us
Back when we still had faith in you

All means are good to win the dome
If lice could vote, you’d be the plague
As unproductive folks, we won’t produce
Another idiot at the head of the state

I don't need you, she tells the necrophile
Who was pushing her into the ghetto of old age
Damn technocrat who invented this formula
From the height of my contempt, damn it, I’ll fuck you

It’s the first time I’ve said a bad word
And while pouring herself a little glass of port
She gave a middle finger, she looked like Popeye
She still had the flexibility of bees