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You're not serious when you're 17
One beautiful evening, hay, beer and lemonade
Rowdy cafes with dazzling chandeliers
We go under the green lime trees of the promenade
The lime trees smell good, in these good June evenings
The air is sometimes so sweet that we close our eyelids
The city is not far
With scents of vines and scents of beer
Here we see a very small cloth
Dark azure, framed by a small branch
Stung by a bad star, which melts
With the sweet thrill, small and all white
June night, 17 years old, we let ourselves get drunk
The sap is champagne and goes to your head
We wander, we feel each other on the lips, a kiss
Which throbs there, like a little beast
The mad hearted Robin rings through the novels
When, in the light of a pale street lamp
Passes by a young lady with charming little airs
Under the shadow of his father's frightening false collar
And, how immensely naive she finds you
While trotting her little boots
She turns, alert and with a lively movement
On your lips then the cavatinas die
You are in love, rented until August
You are in love, your sonnets make her laugh
All your friends are leaving, you have bad taste
Then the adored one, one evening, deigned to write to you
That evening, you return to the bright cafes
You order beer or lemonade
You're not serious when you're 17
And we have green lime trees on the promenade
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