This Lyric is: #131

Copyright 1999 Bruce Madole

Paris in the Spring

Paris was a girl of most particular delights
she liked her lipstick shiny and she loved her dresses tight
and in the evening she would stroll along the boulevard
she loved the way men smiled at her when she wasn't even trying hard
and she wrote her letters home and laughed and signed them
always Paris in the Spring

Paris said the world is made of stories, line by line
and some of us are fairy tales and some of us are lies
and we invent ourselves by merely daring to have dreams
though someone else would do that for us even while we sleep
and she wrote her letters home and laughed and signed them
always Paris in the Spring

And Paris she was beautiful as spring leaves in the rain
when the branches stand out black and wet against the bursting green
and we will never see the like of Paris here again
here along these mean and gritty streets, oh, these lonely, lonely streets

Paris filled our glasses then she said, I have to go
like a strange exotic butterfly that fluttered through my window
we used to drink our wine here in this café, don't you know
I imagine that I'll sit here every night till I grow old
but she left me with a letter, signed it Love,
always Paris in the Spring.