A very loose translation of a once better-known Boris Vian lyric

One nice morning in July, the alarm
At dawn it breaks the calm.
“My doll,” I said, “better shake a leg,”
Today’s the today, not to be missed,
Get to the boulevard without delay,
To see parading the Zanzibar King.
But suddenly the police — we’re turned away,

And I replied:

“We’re not here for you to upbraid,
We’re just here to see the parade.
We’re not here to be waylaid,
We’re just here to see the parade.
Supposing everyone stayed at home,
How’d that look, do you think?
Let us watch the show in peace,
Or, next time, it’ll be the Queen,
And, believe you me, we won’t be seen.”


To prop’ly enjoy the national day,
My best friend and a comfy dive,
Wine that’s cheap, wine that’s good,
Heavenly nectar from vine to hood . . .
But hardly was the drinking done,
At home, I thought, continue the fun,
Only to be threatened by a rolling pin.

And I replied:

“We’re not here for you to upbraid,
We’re just here to play some games.
We’re not here for you to dissuade,
We’re just here to be friends again.
Supposing everyone kept to themselves
Where’s the fun to be had in that?
Step aside, get down the glasses,
Don’t be an ass or the next good day,
I’ll find somewhere else to play.”


My wife’s fury was of such extent
That we were no longer exis-tent.
Midnight at the heavenly gates,
Where Saint Peter held all the dice,
A few of the elect he lets go by,
But when we approach — nary a sigh.
Again the critique, the turning away,

And I replied:

“We’re not here for you to upbraid,
We’d like a taste o’ paradise.
We’re not here to be sent away;
We’re stone dead; it’s time to play.
Supposing you chased all the fools away,
Might be kind of an empty place.
God be with you, but since we’re scorned,
We’re checkin’ out Satan and his horns,
And down there — what a nice surprise!”


Speak up for yourself while there’s still time:
Could that be the moral of these lines?
Speak up for yourself while there’s still time,
And then everything’ll be just fine!

— William Eaton.

Notes & links

French native Boris Vian (1920 – 1959) was, among other things, a writer, poet, musician, and singer. Under the pseudonym Vernon Sullivan he wrote popular/controversial parodies of crime fiction. Under his own name, he wrote fiction noted for its neologisms, wordplay, and surrealistic plots. A leading jazz musician (trumpeter) and critic, he contributed to the popularity of jazz and of American jazz musicians in Paris, and wrote a number of popular songs, including  “Le Déserteur” (The Deserter), an anti-war song, and “On n’est pas là pour se faire engueuler,” the song translated above. The photograph above is of Vian.

YouTube has a recording of Vian singing and playing “On n’est pas là . . . .” I read the text and prepared my translation before ever hearing the song, and I must say that on the page the words have a harder edge which is either belied or made more cynical by the jollity of the music hall arrangement.

Link to a copy of the original lyrics, in French.