I walk along this road,
Engulfed in the smoke that is being blown,
Wafting up my nose,
And it's chokin' me, so I start to moan.

I walk this scented street,
On the boulevard of smokin' fiends.
And this city's deep
In what seeps from chiens, and this isn't bon.

"This isn't bon!"
This I intone;
Smoke's being blown,
Smoke’s being. . . .

Light Gauloises and they sidle up beside me.
My goal was: come here, do and get some eating,
But everywhere smoke's reeking. . .butt-inclined fiends,
Ils fument, I fume, "Not bon!"

[protracted coughing]

I walk after I dine
Until a sidewalk café I find. . .
Order absinthe to take the edge
Off the smoke that was blown.

Green and opaline—it's just
What I need, but everyone lights
Up, and I cry: "Don't you want to stay alive?!
Smoking isn't bon!"

Then they intone:
"Faire foutre, cochon!"
Oaths being blown
Oaths being. . . .

Light Gauloises and then they idly deride me;
Their goad was a verbal, with slurred words, beating.
But* beaten; their lungs seething, butt-inclined fiends,
Ils fument, I fume, "I'm gone!"

[more protracted coughing]

I walk this scented street,
On the boulevard of smokin' fiends,
And this city's deep
In heaps left by les petits that chew a bone.

Light Gauloises and then sidle up beside me.
My goal was to eat and then walk this street, ' n'
Meet a sweet who'll eat--I'm a slut-inclined fiend.
But then: putain; I'm blown!


*goal