Je suis parti ce matin même,
Encor saoul de la nuit mais pris
Comme d'écœurement suprème,
Crachant mes adieux à Paris...
Et me voici, ma bonne femme,
Oui, foutu comme quatre sous...
Mon linge est sale aussi mon âme...
Me voilà chez nous !
Ma pauvre mère est en lessive...
Maman, Maman,
Maman, ton mauvais gâs arrive
Au bon moment !...
Voici ce linge où goutta maintes
Et maintes fois un vin amer,
Où des garces aux lèvres peintes
Ont torché leurs bouches d'enfer...
Et voici mon âme, plus grise
Des mêmes souillures - hélas !
Que le plastron de ma chemise
Gris, rose et lilas...
Au fond du cuvier, où l'on sème,
Parmi l'eau, la cendre du four,
Que tout mon linge de bohème
Repose durant tout un jour...
Et qu'enfin mon àme, pareille
A ce déballage attristant,
Parmi ton àme
— ô bonne vieille !
Repose un instant...
Tout comme le linge confie
Sa honte à la douceur de l'eau,
Quand je t'aurai conté ma vie
Malheureuse d'affreux salaud,
Ainsi qu'on rince à la fontaine
Le linge au sortir du cuvier,
Mère, arrose mon àme en peine
D'un peu de pitié !
Et, lorsque tu viendras tendre
Le linge d'iris parfumé,
Tout blanc parmi la blancheur tendre
De la haie où fleurit le Mai,
Je veux voir mon âme, encor pure
En dépit de son long sommeil
Dans la douleur et dans l'ordure,
Revivre au Soleil !...
I left this morning, after
indulging in another drunken night,
Spitting out my adieus to Paris,
with supreme disgust ...
And here I am, my good woman,
Yes, a total mess ...
My threads as dirty as my soul ...
I'm home!
My poor mother's doing the wash ...
Mama, Mama,
Mama, your bad boy's back
Just in time! ...
Here are my duds where drops of
bitter wine have landed all too many times,
Scorched with the fiery mouths of
bitches with vermillion lips ...
And here's my dingy soul, dingy
With the same sins - alas!
as the colors of my shirt-front
Gray, rose and lilac ...
Deep in the laundry tub, you've planted,
Among the water and ashen dirt,
All the evidence of my wild ways
To soak the whole day ...
Until finally my soul, like
this pitiful dirty laundry,
has a moment's repose,
O! Good old woman with your soul.
And as my laundry releases
Its shame to the sweet water,
I will be telling you about my life
Unhappy horrid bastard that I am,
Then while you rinse away at the fountain,
And the laundry leaves the tub,
Mother, cleanse my suffering soul
with a little compassion!
And when you come to spread out
The clean iris-scented wash,
all white, amongst the tender snowiness
of the hedge where the May flowers bloom,
I want to see my soul, pure once more
Despite the long nightmare of,
Its sorrowful trashy ordeal,
Reborn in the Sunshine!
French libertarian poet and chansonnier, Gaston Couté was born in Beaugency on September 23 1880.
He left school, before obtaining his baccalauréat, and initially was employed in the tax office in Orleans.
He then found work with a local paper, Le Progrès du Loiret, and began to publish leaflets with his
poetry, many composed in a patois that he is often credited with creating. In 1898, at the age of 18, he decided
to venture to Paris.
After several very lean years, he began to enjoy some success reciting his poems in cabarets. He wrote for several
publications including La Bonne Chanson, La Barricade and La Guerre Sociale.
His hard drinking caught up with him early and he died at the age of 31 on June 28, 1911, His works have since been
regularly showcased and interpreted by such artists as Édith Piaf, Monique Morelli, Marc Ogeret, Bernard Lavilliers and La
Tordue).
