Oh my war is lost indeed,
My color is a grievous white.
If they take away my land
They'll smear my grief in their delight.
As I see those northern lice
Glutted with glory all through France
In the great winds of history
What can we say, we Occitans?
To give protection to our language
Of a poor eighty-year-old few...
There is nobody who remembers.
They rob us of our children too.
Banging heads against a door...
Lunatics in the hospital...
A nice strong rinse, and for a helmet
The holy grail upon your skull....
When you're hunting the Chimera
Nothing beats electroshock
Like the wrong the world has done
I spit blood and fire and rock.