At Djibouti, the sergeants

In Djibouti, the adjudants
Strut about, they're satisfied
It's Saturday, it's pay day
Their necks are like pillars
A small head and big feet
And red in their ears
In Djibouti, the adjudants
Run off to have a good time
At the brothel on Paris Street
These women are there, waiting for them
They'll get their money's worth
Enough to dream until Monday
In Djibouti, the adjudants
Rising from nothing, from the ranks
Don't find life tasteless
After all, here they're the kings
Yet sometimes it happens
They feel a bit empty-headed
It must be the heat here
It's about fifty degrees at noon
It doesn't encourage deep thought
When they think, it's about their health
Here it's easy to catch
A nasty sore on the member
In Djibouti, there are beggars
Who have no eyes and no teeth
Sometimes a missing leg
Certainly, think the adjudants
And who keeps all these beggars alive
It's still France that finances it
In Djibouti, when evening comes
At the meeting of the hopeless
Along the demarcation line
At the hour when the good Frenchman sleeps
Perched up high in the watchtowers
The adjudants play a game of cards