Translation:May 1st

Ain't no more yappin' to be done, goddammit — May 1st imposes itself!

May 1st is a day backed by every broke-ass, hustler, wreck, firebrand and lost soul, the jobless and the grinders alike, from the sticks to the city blocks — and by every street-drifter and solid dude who's into the Social.

That day, it's settled: we deal with our own fate.

And hell, it's about goddamn time! We can't take this hell-on-earth anymore without dropping dead — this crap life handed to us by the wealthy and the governing.

In Paris, there's a whole mess of decent folks — mixed in with a few crusty old farts — sittin' on the "May 1st organizing committee".

And committees always miss the point, goddammit!

Still, they decided we ain't going on the usual feel-good stroll over to the cake-munchers at the Aquarium — those being the public powers.

It's been agreed — going to hand over petitions to those jackasses is straight-up bullshit, since they wipe their asses with our whining, plain and simple.

And if we do go knock on their door, it better be with a club in hand.

So no, we ain't gonna stand around twiddling our thumbs at the public powers. That's settled!

And we won't dance either… Yeah, we won't dance!

Plenty of good dudes are gonna ask what the hell dancing's got to do with any of this — it feels totally outta place, like a turd in the punchbowl.

Well, like it or not, some crusty old fart was hell-bent on throwing dance parties on May 1st — where we'd kick up some rowdy fun.

He got shut down hard. We told him to take a hike — loud and clear, with no return ticket.

So then (meaning, after clearing out all that clownery), the committee should've just shut its trap. But nope — no such luck. A committee never knows when to quit; and sure enough, this one decided it was gonna organize.

Goddammit — same old song and dance.

Not like they came up with anything amazing! Supposedly, they're planning four big-ass meetings in four corners of Paris.

Goddammit, I really wonder how the hell we're supposed to cram into some hall — with the thousands of us there are in Paris alone.

And see, if it's just to get packed into a meeting room, shit, we might as well have stayed in bed.

There's only one place where we're truly in our element on a day like this — the street!

Way better, for fuck's sake — 'cause if there's something or someone that needs correcting, we're already right there.

No need for some fancy-ass podiums to run our mouths nonstop!

All that jawing just wastes time — and we end up letting down the real chance of doing quick what the air is screaming.

No dithering — let's go little ones, full speed, heads down!

And thunder strike me, if things do kick off like they ought to, we can't let Constans flood us with fake-ass news.

It'll be the same bullshit Thiers was spewing back in the days of the Commode — the contrary of the truth.

When there's no news coming out of a backwater place, no word on what's going down (in times when shit's going down) — that's a damn good sign! We've gotta double down, get tougher, and push even harder.

Sempre avanti! Always forward! Like the Guidos say. That's gotta be our motto once the real dance starts.

Some solid companions have cranked out manifestos aimed at the army.

That's the soft spot, goddammit — the army is where the fat cats are vulnerable. It's all they've got to defend their asses, so we gotta turn up the heat!

As for the wankers — even though it's their own hides and their cash on the line — they won't lift a goddamn finger.

They're counting on working-class boys to protect them.

Shit! They scrambled our brains so good when we were kids that these pigs still think our own brothers in uniform will shoot us down.

It's sickening — but that's how it is, goddammit!

The second the people start moving, bam! — they send the troops on us, troops they've made sure to stuff full of lies and gut-rotting booze.

But think, for fuck's sake — isn't the people's will supposed to be above everything?

When the people say: "We'll gather in the streets this day", what the hell gives these wankers the right to try and stop us?

They are mocking the people, there!

That kind of idea can only come from the rotted brain of a crook. In fact, anyone who's rich or ruling, same damn thing: a thief — no difference at all!

Goddammit, there's been one thing rattling around in my head for a while now:"What about the soldiers, huh? Why the hell wouldn't they do May 1st like the rest of the working stiffs...?"

Seriously — why wouldn't they move too?

They need a fresh deal just as much as we do — after all the crap the high-class wankers have dumped on them.

Yesterday, they were grinders; and tomorrow, they'll be back among us again — same as the rest of their brothers and friends.

Now that would be something — if the soldiers ditched the barracks, bailed out nice and easy, just to come shake hands with the good folks.

Ah, fuck yeah — we'd welcome them right into our homes! The missus would flip the kitchen upside down, bangin' every damn pot, just to make 'em forget about army slop and prison grub.

We'd talk, goddammit! Really talk, about what matters to us! And since they're just like us, we'd see eye to eye in no time — and together, hand in hand, we could get to work, and throw the fat cats into the fire!

If that happened… man, that'd be wow! We'd just need to stay sharp, holy hell, and not go falling asleep on the job — like the people have done way too often. So many damn times, we've had everything going for us — all the cards in our hands — but being softies, went home at night thinking, "Yeah, now things'll just magically sort themselves out".

But it ain't true! Two days later, bam — backstabbed, right in the spine.

Human misery, goddammit! We've been howling with hunger long enough.

Our kids have hollow cheeks, and they can't even grow up right.

Their poor women are wrecking themselves, breaking their backs — and when they see no light ahead, from left or right, they end up offing themselves… with their kids in their arms.

It's to escape hunger that the Hayems, the Tournemelles, and a whole damn string of others have taken their own lives.

What the hell does that say?

It says, dammit, that we men are lazy bastards, since we can't even defend our own blood!

May 1st is a chance — so why the hell wouldn't we grab it?

It's up to the working lads to bust out of the workshops and factories and hit the streets — proud and loud! Ain't no law against walking your own damn legs around...

They better not sit on their asses just 'cause they've got a steady gig. Their time's coming too — and sooner than they think, goddammit!

We've got our existence to conquer, by all that's holy and explosive! It's a fight worth the risk — so why not go all in?

Heh! Wouldn't it be grand to shout in the faces of the king of the Bastards, the fat cats, the priests, and the whole saintly pack of thieves:"Clear out, you fatties! You've stuffed yourselves long enough! It's high time the poor got to eat their fill!..."