| You never remind me of Paris in Spring
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| A Rembrandt, I find, to my mind you don’t bring
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| There’s no work of art could start to compare
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| You never remind me of pricey French wine
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| Or tuxedoed gents who have dinner at nine
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| Every other man is Vin Ordinaire
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| You’re so unique I find
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| So well-designed
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| That every single thing about you
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| Reminds me of only you
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| You never remind me of summers in Spain
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| The sun when it’s setting, the sound of the rain
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| New Years with Dick Clark, or Park Avenue
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| You never remind me of Sir Lancelot
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| My memory of him is totally shot
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| King Midas touch, not much next to you
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| 'Cause if the truth be known
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| When we’re alone
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| Than every single thing about you
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| Reminds me of only you
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| You never remind me of gods that are Greek
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| My dear
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| And though I may hang on each word that you speak
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| It’s clear
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| Ahead and behind me I lose track of all events
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| And as a consequence, you are my present tense
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| You never remind me of anyone who
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| Reminds me of anyone other than you
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| Compare though I will, I still can’t equate
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| 'Cause when you’re here with me
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| Then vis-á-vis
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| You raise the heat repeatedly
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| So if I forget to recall
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| Remind me again, that’s all |