Retour sur les crapauds
Une promenade dans le parc
Semble préférable au bureau :
Le lac, les rayons du soleil,
La pelouse où l’on s’étend,
Le bruit lointain du bac à sable
Derrière les bas noirs des nourrices -
L’endroit vous parait confortable.
Mais je n’en voudrais pas,
Car je fais partie de ces gens
Qu’on y rencontre l’après-midi
Vieux éclopés faisant leurs exercices
Greffiers effarés qui tremblent de peur
Convalescents au teint de cire
Perdus depuis quelque accident
Et personnages en longs manteaux
Dans les poubelles se plongeant
Qui cherchent tous à fuir ce travail de crapaud
En se faisant faibles ou idiots.
Imaginez-vous l’un deux !
Ecoutant l’heure sonner
Regardant le pain se livrer
Le soleil dans le ciel se cacher
Les enfants de l’école rentrer;
Imaginez-vous l’un d’eux,
Ressassant leurs vies ratées
Devant un massif d’azalées
Sans rien à faire que de rentrer
Sans amis que des chaises vides-
Non, rendez-moi ma bannette courrier
Ma secrétaire et son gros chignon
Mes je-prends-les-appels-monsieur ?
Que demander de mieux,
Quand on allume à quatre heures passées
Dans les derniers jours de l’année ?
Donne-moi le bras, crapaud, mon frère
Sur le chemin du cimetière.
Toads revisited
Walking around in the park
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on,
Blurred playground noises
Beyond black-stockinged nurses -
Not a bad place to be.
Yet it doesn't suit me.
Being one of the men
You meet of an afternoon:
Palsied old step-takers,
Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters,
Waxed-fleshed out-patients
Still vague from accidents,
And characters in long coats
Deep in the litter-baskets -
All dodging the toad work
By being stupid or weak.
Think of being them!
Hearing the hours chime,
Watching the bread delivered,
The sun by clouds covered,
The children going home;
Think of being them,
Turning over their failures
By some bed of lobelias,
Nowhere to go but indoors,
Nor friends but empty chairs -
No, give me my in-tray,
My loaf-haired secretary,
My shall-I-keep-the-call-in-Sir:
What else can I answer,
When the lights come on at four
At the end of another year?
Give me your arm, old toad;
Help me down Cemetery Road.
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on,
Blurred playground noises
Beyond black-stockinged nurses -
Not a bad place to be.
Yet it doesn't suit me.
Being one of the men
You meet of an afternoon:
Palsied old step-takers,
Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters,
Waxed-fleshed out-patients
Still vague from accidents,
And characters in long coats
Deep in the litter-baskets -
All dodging the toad work
By being stupid or weak.
Think of being them!
Hearing the hours chime,
Watching the bread delivered,
The sun by clouds covered,
The children going home;
Think of being them,
Turning over their failures
By some bed of lobelias,
Nowhere to go but indoors,
Nor friends but empty chairs -
No, give me my in-tray,
My loaf-haired secretary,
My shall-I-keep-the-call-in-Sir:
What else can I answer,
When the lights come on at four
At the end of another year?
Give me your arm, old toad;
Help me down Cemetery Road.
