Vivelavieboheme
To thee, mother country, my thoughts turn with sweet longing, here, as we sing and drink. With malice is our country insulted by the villains as they sing and drink. With wreaths of laurel, with wine...
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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 on walls Right up to our windows. And even if the humble pad That served...
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