| Mademoiselle remembers too well
|
| How once she was belle of the ball
|
| Now the past she sadly recalls
|
| Mademoiselle lived in grand hotels
|
| Ordered clothes by Chanel and Dior
|
| Millionaires queued at her door
|
| Oh, she pleased them and teased them
|
| She hooked them and squeezed them
|
| Until like their empires they’d fall
|
| She very soon learned
|
| That the more love she spurned
|
| The more power she yearned
|
| Until she was belle of the ball
|
| Oh, Mademoiselle, such a soft machiavel
|
| Would play bagatelle with the hearts of young men as
|
| They fell
|
| Mademoiselle would hide in her shell
|
| Could then turn cast a spell on any girl
|
| That got in her way
|
| She would crave all attention
|
| Men would flock to her side
|
| Woe betide any man who ignored
|
| For she’d feign such affection
|
| Then break down their pretension
|
| When she’d won she would turn away
|
| Turn away, thoroughly bored
|
| Mademoiselle, long ago said farewell
|
| To any love left to sell, for the sake of being belle
|
| Of the ball
|
| Mademoiselle knows there’s no way to quell
|
| Her own private hell, just a shell
|
| With no heart left at all
|
| Poor old Mademoiselle
|
| Still a Mademoiselle |