| We packed up our books and our dishes
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| Our dreams and your worsted wool suits
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| We sailed on the 8th of December
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| Farewell old Hudson River
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| Here comes the sea
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| And love was as new and as bright and as true
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| When I loved you and you loved me
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| Two steamer trunks in the carriage
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| Safe arrival we cabled back home
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| It was just a few days before Christmas
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| We filled our stockings with wishes
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| And walked for hours
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| Arm and arm through the rain, to the glassed-in cafe
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| That held us like hot house flowers
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| Living in Paris, in attics and garrets
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| Where the coal merchants climb every stair
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| The dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whores
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| And the music floats up through the air
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| There’s Sancerre and oysters, cathedrals and cloisters
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| And time with its unerring aim
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| For now we can say we were lucky most days
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| And throw a rose into the Seine
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| Love is the greatest deceiver
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| It hollows you out like a drum
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| And suddenly nothing is certain
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| As if all the clouds closed the curtains
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| And blocked the sun
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| And friends now are strangers in this city of dangers
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| As cold and as cruel as they come
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| Sometimes I look at old pictures
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| And smile at how happy we were
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| How easy it was to be hungry
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| It wasn’t for fame or for money
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| It was for love
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| Now my copper hair’s grey as the stone on the quay
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| In the city where magic was
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| Living in Paris, in attics and garrets
|
| Where the coal merchants climb every stair
|
| The dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whores
|
| And the music floats up through the air
|
| There’s Sancerre and oysters, and Notre Dame’s cloisters
|
| And time with its unerring aim
|
| And now we can say we were lucky most days
|
| And throw a rose into the Seine
|
| And now I can say I was lucky most days
|
| And throw a rose into the Seine |