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They call it Miss of Paris And his life it is a little ours
His kingdom it is the street of Rivoli His destiny, it is to dress the others
They say that it is small hand And if it is true that it is not big
That of bunches and garlands It seeded on our ways.
She sings an air of his suburb She dreams of solemn promises of love
It cries and more often than in its turn Miss of Paris
It gives all talent which she has To make a ball to the Opera
And line, in the door of the Lilac Miss of Paris
Weather is nice And up here
It is going to sew a heart in the topcoat
But the heart of a child of Paris It is similar to the bunches of violets
They tie it to the corsage one Saturday On Sundays they lose it on holiday
Goodbye small restaurant with music and dancing, goodbye boy
Here is alone with his trouble And start again the week,
And start again the song
She sings an air of his suburb She dreams of solemn promises of love
It cries and more often than in its turn Miss of Paris
It gives a few its twenty years To make a spring collection
And alone leave dream on a bench Miss of Paris
Three small turns One good morning
It forgets that she mourned love She sings and the heart is happy
She dreams and his dream is very blue It cries but this is not very serious
Miss of Paris It flies in small impatient steps
It runs towards Champs Elysées And give a little of his lunch
In the sparrows of Tile factories It croons
It smiles... And here is Miss of Paris.