On fait tant, à la fin, que l'huître est pour le juge, Les écailles pour les plaideurs.
Quand le moment viendra d'aller trouver les morts, J'aurai vécu sans soins, et mourrai sans remords.
Quand le moment viendra d'aller trouver les morts, J'aurai vécu sans soins, et mourrai sans remords.
Il n'est pas malaisé de tromper un trompeur.
Mais le moindre grain de mil Serait bien mieux mon affaire.
Tout faiseur de journaux doit tribut au Malin.
Ils ne mouraient pas tous, mais tous étaient frappés.
© 2026 My French LLC
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