'Deep' is relative. Here it tends to mean: anything deeper than Beyoncé. This means even Ariana Grande may qualify. Nick Cave passes the bar any day.
This is about death, a subject often touched upon by Brassens but as usual with him its a funny song that puts a nice spin on the whole idea of dying, as long as you rest in the right spot.
Plea to be buried on the beach at Sète
The Grim Reaper who never forgave me
For having sown flowers in the holes of his nose
Is pursuing me with foolish zeal
And so surrounded closely by burials
I saw it fit to update my will
To pen down a codicil
Dip in the blue ink of the Gulf of Lion
Dip deep your quil, oh my old tabellion
And with your most beautiful handwriting
Note what ought to happen to my body
When my soul and he will no longer agree
But on a single point: the break-up
When my soul takes its flight on the horizon
Towards those of Gavroche and Mimi Pinson
Those of stray cats and street boys
May my body be brought back to the native soil
In a Paris-Méditerranée sleeper train
Terminus at Sète station
My family vault, alas, is not brand new
Commonly speaking, it's as full as an egg
And by the time someone gets out
It may be late and I can't tell
These good people to push themselves a bit
Make room for the youth, if you will
Right by the sea, a stone's throw from the blue waves
Dig if possible a soft little hole
A small comfortable niche
Nearby my childhood friends, the dolphins
Along this shore where the sand is so fine
On the Corniche Beach
It's a beach where, even when he's furious
Neptune never takes himself too seriously
Where when a ship wrecks
The captain shouts "I am the master on board,
Save your souls, wine and pastis first,
Everyone gets his own bottle and courage!"
And that's where once at the age of fifteen
When having fun alone is no longer enough
I knew my first passion
From a mermaid, a siren
I received, of love, the first lesson
Swallowed the first fishbone
With all due respect for Paul Valéry
I, the humble troubadour, rise on him
The good master will forgive me
But at least, if his verses are better than mine
Let my cemetery be more marine than his
No matter what the locals opine
This tomb, sandwiched between water and sky
Won't give a sad mood to the scene
But instead an indefinable charm
Bathers will use it as a screen
To change outfits and little children
Will say: "Look, a sand castle!"
Is it too much to ask? On my little plot
Please plant some kind of pine
Umbrella pine by preference
That will shield against sunstroke
The good friends coming on my concession
For affectionate reverences
Sometimes from Spain, sometimes from Italy
All loaded with perfumes and pretty musics
The Mistral and the Tramontane [local winds]
On my last sleep will pour the echoes
Of villanelle one day, one day of fandango
Of tarantella, of sardana
And when, taking my mound for a pillow
A mergirl will gently come to rest
With less than nothing for costume
I ask forgiveness in advance to Jesus
If the shadow of my cross leans slightly on her
For a little posthumous pleasure
Poor pharaoh kings, poor Napoleon
Poor great heros lying in the Pantheon
Poor ashes of consequence
You will come to envy the eternal holidayer
Who rides the wave dreaming
Who spends his death on vacation