| They call me coquette, and mademoiselle,
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| And I must admit I like it quite well.
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| It’s something to be the darling of all;
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| Le grande femme fatale, the belle of the ball,
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| There’s nothing as gay as life in Paris,
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| There’s no other person, I’d rather be,
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| I love what I do, I love what I see,
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| But where is the schoolgirl that used to be me.
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| Ah, the apple trees,
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| Where at garden teas,
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| Jack-o-lanterns swung:
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| Fashions of the day,
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| Vests of applique,
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| Dresses of shantung,
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| Only yesterday.
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| While sitting around we often recall,
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| The laugh of the year, the night of them all,
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| The blonds who was so attractive that year,
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| Some opening night that made us all cheer;
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| Remember that time we all got so tight,
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| And Jacques and Antoine got into a fight,
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| The gendarmes who came, passed out like a light,
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| I laugh with the rest, it’s all very bright.
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| Ah, the apple trees,
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| Sunlight memories,
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| Where the hammock swung,
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| On our backs we’d lie;
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| Looking at the shy,
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| Till the stars were strung,
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| Only last July,
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| When the world was young.
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| You’ll see me in Cape D’Antibes, or in Spain,
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| I follow the sun by boat or by plane,
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| It’s any old millionaire in a storm,
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| For I’ve got my mink to keep my heart warm:
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| And sometimes I drink too much with the crowd,
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| And, sometimes I talk a little too loud,
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| My head may be aching, but it’s unbowed,
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| And sometimes I see it all through the cloud
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| Ah, the apple trees,
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| And the hive of bees,
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| Where we once got stung,
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| Summers at Bordeau,
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| Rowing at bateau,
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| Where the willow hung,
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| Just a dream ago, |