Cent quinze sur la rue de Belleville dans ParisnMarks the spot where I was not bornnBut the myth persists because my life was chaoticnA street corner-birth from an Italian whorennAnetta Giovani Millard, my mothernWandered the bars and the fairgroundsnShe had a fling with a circus performernThen left me with pap, who soon handed me downnnSometimes things get heavynSometimes it's too muchnnNow in the care of a kind brothel MadamenGrandma Gassion did the best that she couldnThis upbringing had not made me sentimentalnWhen a boy signalled a girl, I figured she shouldnnAt sixteen years old, I was a mothernBy seventeen, I was on with my lifenWhen little Marcel died of meningitisnI started singing because I could not crynnLewis Leplais was the club ownernHe coaxed me on stage with a la môme piafnI was the rage, a heartbreaking beautynBut I broke for real when they found him deadnAnd they had the nerve to consider me a suspectnnSometimes things get heavynSometimes it's too muchnnStretch just a bit furthernSee how far I can gonThis will be life to the fullestnRich, 'cause I am the sparrownnSome people think I was unsympatheticnBecause in my notes I rarely spoke of the warnPardonnez-moi, I was a little bit busynSeeking out safety and lusting for morenMore, more, morennSometimes it's too muchnnMy list of men looked like a phonebooknWhat can I say?nIt was tragic and funnI had my last at fourty-sevennHe was twenty years freshernI like them youngnnNineteen-sixty-three I recorded my last songnAiling, I was brought to the coastnMy present love and a couple of othersnReasoned with me as I feared I might roastnOh mon Dieu!nnSometimes things get heavynSometimes it's too muchnnStretch just a bit furthernGuess this is my time to gonPlease, won't you pray to Saint RitanTo take care of her sparrow?