Sync Different

THE LYRICIST’S LAMENT

Music by Sebastijan Duh
Lyrics by John Greaves

I was asked to write a song
I said “Easy,” it’s “easy peasy”
Just find a word at the end of the line
Then you gotta make it rhyme
With love and stars above
It won’t take you very long

But I found out that I was wrong
Wasn’t thinking, had I been drinking?
Words don’t fall like rain from the sky
But a lot of little jewels
Like tiny molecules
Could grow up to be a song

Try to sing it using verbal dexterity
You can wing it schmoozing perfect sincerity
You could be climbing a stairway to heaven
Once you’re up it you’ll be stuck like a puppet on a string

So we’re coming to the end the conclusion
No illusion,
This little story’s hit the end of the road
And it’s just a bunch of sounds
To please the ear
So nice to hear
And you got another job
Done and dusted

Je tourne en rond dans ma boutique,J'en ai ma claque j'en ai ma clique.J'vends des souvenirs au bout d'la place,Toute une camelote qui s'entasse,Mais tout ce commerce est en berne,Depuis que c'est mon mec qui le gouverne.

Oh! mais là faut que ça cesse!J'suis plus de la première jeunesseSi je veux vivre de mes breloques,Il faut que j'le mette à la porte!
Mais qui va m'réchauffer l'café?Partager mes coups dans l'nez?Me dire que j'suis la plus belle,Pendant que je fais la vaisselle?

Et dès qu'arrivent les touristes,Le voilà qui se met en piste!Il terrorise les gamins,Et les parents font du tintouin,Et s'il entre une bonne sœur, Monsieur, grossier,Insulte le seigneur!


English translation :
RENGAINE

I go round and round in my boutique,I can’t stand it anymoreI sell souvenirs at the end of the square,A load of tat piling upBut because business is badSince my guy took over
Oh
! it’s got to stopI’m no longer in the prime of youthIf I must live from my trinketsI’ll have to chuck him outBut who’s gonna make my coffeeShare the one over the oddsTell me I am the prettiestWhile I’m doing the washing-up
And as soon as the tourists arrive,Then his show beginsHe terrorizes the kidsAnd the parents make fussAnd if a none comes in, Monsieur, uncouth,Insults the Good Lord