| What do I hear, what do I hear?
|
| Chit-chat, and clinking glass
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| Cheap talk, a lady’s laugh
|
| After hour
|
| What do I see, what do I see?
|
| Some sunken hideaway
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| Where people go to play
|
| After hour
|
| There I’ll spend the night
|
| Meeting fancy thins
|
| At bistros and old haunts
|
| Trying very hard to sin
|
| Then it is day end in a way
|
| The pattern’s much the same
|
| In-spots, a matinee
|
| Every day
|
| Blend with the crowd, blend with the loud
|
| Hypnotic ebb and flow
|
| Until the day goes slowly
|
| Into night
|
| See the same old crowd
|
| At bistros and old haunts
|
| 'Til the lights grow dim,
|
| The not-so-subtle hint to be gone
|
| Thank God it’s not Christmas
|
| When there is only you
|
| And nothing else to do
|
| Thank God it’s not Christmas
|
| Where there’s just you to do
|
| The rest is closed to public view
|
| Caroling kids, caroling kids
|
| A trifle premature, in tones so rich and pure and crystaline
|
| Call for the day, the popular day
|
| It’s fast approaching now
|
| But will the mood allow
|
| One dissent
|
| If this were the Seine
|
| We’d be very suave
|
| But it’s just the rain
|
| Washing down the boulevard
|
| Popular days, the popular ways
|
| Are for the chosen few
|
| Not meant for me and you
|
| Obviously
|
| Popular nights, poplar rites
|
| Great things to say and do
|
| Aren’t said or done by you
|
| Obviously
|
| If this were Seine
|
| We’d be very suave
|
| But it’s just the rain
|
| Washing down the boulevard |