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And my father!

When you were dancing in this time,
No need for wah-wah pedal.
It wasn't bossa nova
But it was already moving.
The cellars were deep
And ring dance was never stopped.
An old bastringue piano
And the crazy ones
Already twirled.
 
And Juliette still had her nose.
Aragon wasn't a twink.
Sartre was already well committed.
At the Café de Flore, there were already some gays
And my father had just landed.
He already haunted the shopkeepers.
In his bedroom, one munched on coffee.
He ignored that one day I'd talk about it.
 
When you were flirting in this time,
You only touched each other with your fingertips.
The (contraceptive) pill didn't exist.
It was better not to play these games.
You only said 'I love you',
And even sometimes
You were making love.
Today, two salads,
Three tirades
And the deal is done.
 
Uncle Adolf had already shot himself.
His Eva had accompanied him,
In case he wanted to flirt:
Who knows if there aren't some gays up there?
And my father'd soon plant
This seed that was going to give him
This moron trying to sing.
He didn't know my cadets would come.
 
When you were singing in this time
Money didn't dictate the law.
The hit parades didn't exist,
At least they weren't influent.
You needed weeks
And weeks,
Sometimes years.
If you had no guts,
Your shop, you could close it
 
And Trenet had taken years,
Brassens was starting to work hard
And Bécaud was polishing his keyboard.
Monsieur Brel wasn't yet talking about the gay ones
And my father had just landed
Where there was still some humanity,
Where people still knew how to speak
of the future ... even if they were exhausted.
 
And Juliet still had her nose.
Aragon was not a twink.
Sartre was already well under way.
At the Café de Flore, there were already some gays
And my father had just landed.
He already haunted the shopkeepers.
In his room, one munched on coffee.
He ignored that one day I'd talk about it.
 

So far away from L.A.

Versions: #2
Some glimmering /dim airport Lights
Some strange foreign/golden-haired girls
In my memory /still linger.
It's winter in / San Francisco,
Water never falls, never. no,
On the borders of Colorado.
The Golden Gate /starts to slumber
On Alcatraz/ where still linger
Prison-coloured /tears and sobbings
Mr Caryl /Chessman is dead
There's still the sha/dow of a doubt
Was he really/ right, was he wrong ?
 
So far away from L.A
So far ago from Frisco
I'm no one but a shadow
But a shadow, a shadow
The Queen Mary's/ now a hotel
Off the shore of/ Beverly Hills
And all the hills/ can still recall
The splendours of / the Dynasty
That ran from Gar/bo to Bogie
Reverbera/ting its folly.
So far away from L.A
So far ago from Frisco
I'm no one but a shadow
But a shadow, a shadow.
 
Such a poor M/rs Polanski