In West Paris, born and raised.
In the coffee shop is where I spent most of my days
Writing sad poetry every single day
And smoking tiny cigarettes outside my lycée
When a couple of guys wearing tiny berets
Started making trouble near my chalet
I got in one little fight and my mom said no.
She said ‘You’re moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bordeaux’.
I grew a tiny mustache that was pencil thin
and packed smelly cheeses inside of a tin.
I’m sure that I stunk like Pepé le Pew.
But who cares how I smell – what’s it to you?
I pulled up to the maison about 7 or 8.
It doesn’t matter when, because I’m generally late.
I said to myself, “C’est la vie, au contraire.”
Time to sit on my throne as the French Prince of Bel Air.
The Lighter Side of the Moon 