(But to understand this, you see, you have to be born here.) x2

Here the sun shines every day of the year
And if there are clouds they are in the next village over
I speak of the country where nature was born
Here there are only bicycles; here there are no cars

All the rivers of the world begin here
All the mountains of the world grew up here
All the flowers of the world are born here
Here even oil spills become white

Here there are no banks; we have agreements
Here there are no taxes; we have agreements
Here there are no crimes; we have agreements
Here there is no tourism… 

Come quickly over and pick a flower
Go sing on the mountain (grasp at joy)
But before leaving do not forget
To put the flower back, because it is ours

Here even the rabbits only have two children
The groundhogs only sleep one week a year
Here the kangaroos have two pockets, one for each hand
They have this underwater show that the Americans don’t have
They’re in a fluting group with Christian Morin
It’s heaven on Earth and also it smells like rosemary

I speak of the country where God was born
And the believers here love the only real God
It’s not so that you come here that we sing this,
but if I were you I would be jealous of me 

Here there is no school; we have agreements
Here there are no books; we have agreements
Here there is no fighting; we have agreements
Here there is no prefecture (Oh, not anymore?)

Come here quickly and listen to the river-water
Go sing on the mountain (grasp at joy)
But before leaving don’t forget
To pay for the water, because it’s ours
(When you walk, does the tree follow you?  No?  Well, that’s because it’s ours.  So when you walk, you walk far from it and you don’t lean against it.)

Here for a thousand years the proper marriages are inbred
It’s in making selections that the human race betters itself
Our men are solid, the way men should be
Our women are beautiful, the way women should be

We sell to the English neither our houses nor our farms
Nor to the French nor to anyone - our houses, we stay in them
And we know how to party, we know the word bender
We’re not alcoholics; we just like to drink

The best football team, it’s the one we have here
The best breathalyzers are the ones we have here
The best tolerance, it’s the one we have here
The best skin color (Oh wait no oy!)

Come quickly over and breathe happiness
Go sing on the mountain (get cancer)
Before leaving, don’t forget
To put the air back, because it’s ours

But not only that 


They’re funny this year.  It’s hard to guess at the start which one’ll be arrested for stealing scooters, which one’ll be incarcerated for dealing.  

As a good teacher, I’m prepared: a bit of math, and French, kickboxing, karate.  Too bad for geography: what they know of Italy is pretty much just spaghetti and Rocco Sifredi.

The syllabus this year:  in French we’re going to read an entire book, but even with Dan Brown and Marc Lévy there’re more than a hundred vocabulary words; we’ll still be at the preface after winter.

And my neighbor, when he sees me, says,
"Bunch of slobs, so you’re already out; you don’t know what it is to work; with your twenty-hour work weeks you work less than the mailman; and to say I pay your wages; and you’re not even tan!"
A hundred worksheets to grade, two-three Prozacs, eight coffees-
but I still hear him from downstairs:
"And I’m not even talking about the job security!" 

The one with glasses, he’s the genius:  he can write his name without errors, he can count, wow!  Bah, it’s not bad for a ninth-grader, we take what we can get.  A brainiac like him is clearly gonna get bullied.

Thirty-five students this year.  I asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up: I got ten Zidanes, fifteen Amel Bents, and nine Boubas, and a maverick who wants to be vigilante and lawyer.  He must’ve seen with Courbet that it’d be good to be a lawyer if ever you were arrested.  They think they’ll take their exams in front of “L’Ile De La Tentation.”  And a big thank you to television!

And my neighbor, the same as yesterday, will tell me:
"Bunch of bureaucrats, so you’re already out; you don’t know what it is to work; with you twenty-hour work week, you work less than a clerk; and to say I pay for my kid: he’s repeating second grade!"
Quick, some report cards to fill out, two-three Prozacs, eight kirs-
but still I hear him from downstairs:
"And I’m not even talking about the job security!"

The ministry directives require that we have meetings more often: we even hold them to plan the next meetings or to decide what rules we can impose without risk.

Because there are no more grades: sometimes we just have to text them words of encouragement.  The evaluation, it’s not you that does it: it’s them that say you’re cool.  I still rather they give me grades than headbutts.

Impossible to make them repeat grades: mustn’t perturb the poor darlings.  Have to simplify the syllabus because there are too many classes and they’re beat.  They’ve even suggested administering the bac with the next Playstation.

And my neighbor - you know him - will tell me:
"Overpaid mob, you do nothing all day; you shouldn’t be tired; with your twenty-hour work week you work less than the unemployed; and you don’t have a boss and you don’t have reviews; it’s not for what you really do."

Parents to meet; two-three Prozacs, eight Grand Marniers, and seeing how they’re invested, next year won’t go much better.  Might want to think about adopting them - get them up in the morning and in the evening put them to bed.  And maybe sleep in their stead so they can stay awake in class.

The gym teacher didn’t come in today; she got jumped in the street.  But they did warn her that they wouldn’t do sports before noon: they already can’t smoke in class, and that’s disgusting enough.

This time, it’s decided: my kids will go to private school.  And I keep looking, but I don’t really see it, this job security.