Hexagone

They kiss in January
As a new year begins
But for eternities
France hasn't changed much
Days and weeks go by
Only the scenery evolves
The mentality remains the same
All losers, all hypocrites

They're not heavy, in February
Remembering Charonne
Sworn baton-wielders
Who perfected their craft
France is a country of cops
On every street corner, a hundred of them
To enforce public order
They murder with impunity

When they execute in March
On the other side of the Pyrenees
A Basque Country anarchist
To teach him to revolt
They shout, they cry, they protest
Against this vile execution
But they forget that the guillotine
Still works here too

Being born under the hexagon sign
Is not the best thing right now
And the king of idiots, on his throne
I wouldn't bet he's German

They were told, in April
On TV, in the newspapers
Not to uncover a thread
That spring was coming soon
The old principles of the sixteenth century
And the old stupid traditions
They follow them to the letter
These idiots make me pity them

They remember, in May
Of blood that ran red and black
Of a failed revolution
That almost changed History
I especially remember those sheep
Frightened by Freedom
Going to vote by the millions
For order and security

They commemorate in June
A Normandy landing
They think of the brave American soldier
Who came to die far from home
They forget that safe from bombs
The French shouted 'Long live Pétain'
That they were well hidden in London
That there weren't many Jean Moulins

Being born under the hexagon sign
Is not glory, in truth
And the king of idiots, on his throne
Don't tell me he's Portuguese

They celebrate in July
In memory of a revolution
That never eliminated
Misery and exploitation
They drink at popular balls
Fireworks and fanfare
They think they forget in beer
That they are governed like pawns

In August it's freedom
After a long year of factory work
They shout: 'Long live paid vacations'
They forget the machine a bit
In Spain, Greece or France
They pollute all the beaches
And with their sole presence
Damage all the landscapes

When in September they assassinate
A people and a freedom
In the heart of Latin America
Not many yell
An ambassador shows up
With open arms he's welcomed
Fascism is gangrene
In Santiago as in Paris

Being born under the hexagon sign
Is really not a walk in the park
And the king of idiots, on his throne
He's French, I'm sure of that

No more grape harvest in October
The grapes ferment in barrels
They are very proud of their vineyards
Their 'Côtes-du-Rhône' and their 'Bordeaux'
They export the blood of the earth
All over abroad
Their wine and their camembert
It's their only glory, these idiots

In November, at the auto show
They go admire by the thousands
The latest model from Peugeot
That they can never afford
The car, the TV, the horse race
It's the opium of the French people
To take it away is to kill them
It's a habit-forming drug

In December it's the climax
The big feast and the little gifts
They're still as gloomy
But there's joy in the ghettos
The Earth could stop turning
They won't miss their New Year's Eve
I'd like to see them all die
Choked on chestnut-stuffed turkey

Being born under the hexagon sign
We can't say it's exciting
If the king of idiots lost his throne
There would be 50 million contenders