South West of France, summer 2013. A young woman from Toulouse dwells next door. She is noisy, and returns completely drunk from night-clubs, every night. Then she sits in her garden, only 10 yards away from my bedroom, and tells everyone -and very loudly-, about her night, her life, with much detail on her disappointments. Her speech is ... colorful. She talks about the "Bargouniasses" (a very local name for "barsluts"), about "torpedos" (meaning "hasty womanizers") and "colleurs" (gluey men). After several nights of non-sleep, I took my guitar and wrote this song.
La Bargouniasse
Les soirées de la bargouniasse, après 4 heures du mat, me cassent.
Ca chante faux et parle trop fort, et moi à c'te heure-là, je dors.
Encore 2 nuits comme ça, j'me casse, non sans m'cogner la bargouniasse,
J'ferai hurler Florent Pagny, dans un ampli au pied d'son lit.
S'il faut que jeunesse se passe, qu'ça soit sans la bargouniasse.
Ses torpedos, ses colleurs, me donnent des haut-le-coeur.