Comme j'aimais le dimanche,
Quand dans la R9 blanche
De papa nous allions visiter la station.
En famille on partait,
Mais jamais il n'avouait
Que c''tait la station
La vraie destination.
Pour ce genre d'aventure
Il faut une couverture,
Une balade officielle
Un peu plus consensuelle.
Un but p'dagogique,
Un pr'texte classique.
Une simple sortie de fin d'apr's-midi.
Marcher en contournant l'hippodrome ou l''tang,
Dire bonjour ? grand-p're dans l'all'e du cimeti're.
Alors on y allait comme si de rien n''tait,
Et puis sur le retour on faisait le d'tour.
Mieux que le vent d''tà,
Que les embruns sal's,
Mieux que l'herbe coup?e,
O effluve ador? de la station d'?puration.
Pour v?rifier une vanne,
Pour constater une panne
Ou par pure pr?caution,
Tout mobile 'tait bon
M?me apr's dix-neuf heures.
M?me le jour du seigneur,
Aller ? la station c''tait sa d'votion.
Alors je jubilais.
Car avec lui, j'entrais
Dans l'inqui'tant palais
Dont il avait les clefs.
Devant les eaux stagnantes
Je me sentais vivante,
Dans l'odeur de moisi
Je me trouvais jolie.
Je n'allais pas, enfant,
Regarder l'oc?an
Pour dans l'azur me perdre,
Mais au bord de la merde.
Et sachez qu'en hiver,
Inhaler au grand air
Le ventre de la terre,
On dirait du Baudelaire.
Mieux que le vent d''tà,
Que les embruns sal's,
Mieux que l'herbe coup?e,
O effluve ador? de la station d'?puration.
Depuis ces heureux jours,
Je nourris un amour
Pur et immod'r?
Pour les ?viers bouch's,
Les restes de savon
Qui engluent les siphons,
Les cheveux par poign?es
Qui obstruent les bidets.
J'ai acquis la passion
Des canalisations.
Rien ? mon coeur ne vaut
La vue d'un ch'teau d'eau.
Quand d'autres ont le d'go't
Des remontàes d'?gouts,
Je n'aime rien tant que
Leur doux parfum aqueux.
Qu'un lavabo douteux
Se pr'sente ? mes yeux,
Qu'une baignoire inonde
Le sol d'une eau immonde,
J'ai la ventouse au poing
Et la technique au point.
Intens?ment, j'aspire.
On dirait du Shakespeare.
Mieux que le vent d''tà,
Que les embruns sal's,
Mieux que l'herbe coup?e,
O effluve ador? de la station d'?puration.
Jeanne Cherhal is a French singer-songwriter born in Paris in 1978. Her music is characterized by an introspective and poetic folk-pop sound, often accompanied by refined acoustic arrangements. After starting her career in the 1990s with some independent EPs, Cherhal achieved national success with the album "L'amour est une histoire" (2005). Among her most well-known songs are "Le ciel est gris", "Je ne sais pas", and "La vie en rose". Her music is appreciated for the sensitivity of the lyrics, which explore themes such as love, loss, loneliness, and self-discovery. Cherhal has collaborated with several French artists, including Alain Souchon and Jean-Jacques Goldman.
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