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I tell you about a time
Which those younger than twenty
weren't able to know.
Montmartre in those days,
hung its lilacs
Right up to our windows and
even if the humble pad
That served as our nest
wasn't much to look at,
It was there that we knew each other,
Me, crying of hunger,
and you, posing in the nude.
La bohème,... la bohème,...
it used to mean
we were happy,
La bohème,... la bohème,...
we didn't eat but once every two days.
In the neighbouring cafés,
We were just people
Awaiting fame.
and even 'though miserable,
With our tummies tucked in,
We never stopped believing
and when some pub,
Would exchange a canvas
For a good warm meal,
we would then recite verses
Gathered 'round the stove,
and forget about winter.
La bohème,... la bohème,...
it used to mean...
...you are pretty
La bohème,... la bohème,...
and all of us were...
...geniuses!