So take me down to Paris then,
Take me to the corner.
Green can meet and blush;
All the secrets kept can rush out while we eat.
Oysters and spice,
Won’t it be great?
We’ll know the maitre d and wife,
Won’t it be great!
We’ll have our favorite seats,
With bowling alleys,
And music sweet.
And can you light my cigarette, while my back is turned,
Smile and turn, and with regret,
Say “non.” If it is “non.”
And then we’ll go back to bend the paint
of all the strokes that came too late.
And will you look into my eye,
And sing to me the lullaby?
The one I heard,
When driving round,
That unfortunate man with his car upturned down?
He suffered from a midnight stroke,
His help had blossomed into hope,
We came and met him where he was, didn’t we?
Didn’t we help and support his upturned nature?
His hands were black, and tire bare,
His hair was wet his back grandeur,
He burned onto the street.
If all we meet are pure and yes
I hope a newer form doesn’t shake our accident.
Can you, will you, throw and spit the pits into the street?
Lights and lamps and bliss: with the bikers on the street?
A picnic with a tablecloth,
A red and white and wine.
An obelisk for bread, and the zipping of the binds.
All the bikers swishing by, and that hot sun beating down.
Can I use your fork if I dropped mine?
Our work will give us pleasure, right?
Our friends will open doors,
To all the “non’s” we’ve said goodbye.
Our friends will be the driving force
As all the bikes go by.
We’ll burn like melon’s
With all our friends lined up to say goodbye.
Through all the breakfast and beds
I find this patch of wood the most comfortable instead.
Tell me all the lies and lords,
Let me hang beneath the jazz and let me tiptoe through the snow.
How all the agencies and managers can come crashing on this corner?
How the best friend, and the worst friend,
Fought hard over the Sorbonne.
And who had won?
If I could promise to hold them back,
would you admit you wanted something else?
The bells of love and smells of bread,
Baked fast across the counter.
Is this me? he says, Paris rolling through his eyes.
Is this me? she says, with fields of grapes rolling through her eyes.
The only way you’ll know for sure is blink,
Paris! Be! Oh, Paris, be!
This can’t be just a dream.
Would my brain see Chevalier?
Would my tongue be humid et due?
Would I screech the streets in moonlight?
Would I burn the bright with you?
Would you ask to be my friend,
Would you bid the past adieu?
If this is not the day I hope you’ll forget all I said.
If this is not today I hope you’ll read that book instead.
But if it is please steal my wine,
Please stay up late and drink.
Please stroll the bridge and walk the Seine
Please tell me “non” and breathe.
Meet me at that place we ate,
Or, see the maitre d!
He knows my name, and knows the only place there is for me.
And if you’ll be me, than I’ll say “Oui” and pass the spoon to you;
And if you’ll be me, you slurp your soup and point up to the moon;
Don’t tell me it’s not Paris, dear. Don’t tell me it’s not true.