Complaine De La Butte
The moon, all too fair, in your russet-red hair sets a sparkling crown
The moon, all too red with glory, is spread on your poor, tattered gown
The moon, all too white, caresses the light in your world-weary eyes
Princess of the street, do allow me to greet you, my broken heart cries
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
I feel, beggar-girl, your fetters, they curl as they seek out my wrists
I feel your young breasts, your thin little waist
I lose my regrets
I taste on your mouth the feverish breath of a half-starving waif
And with your caress I sense drunkenness erasing my life
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
And see how she skips, the moon how she drifts,
The princess in tow
Da da da da da da da da da da
My reveries grow
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours