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PARIS BLUES SINGER
The voice of dreams, out through the fog and mist
behind a concertina's mournful sound,
through halos made of light streetlamps have kissed
as Paris goes to sleep with dreams it's found;

she sounds as if her song will make her die,
there in the cabaret before she's done,
while patrons stare at her, and have to cry,
forgetting this, their night for having fun;

a man, in a pissoirre, out on the street,
has heard the song so many times before,
but she still makes him moan, and wet his feet,
that's why he must return, to hear some more;

there's lovers near the Seine, who've lived the songs,
but cannot ever shake them from their minds;
they keep each word of them where it belongs
hid deeply in a heart nobody finds;

a taxi driver, waiting for a fare,
finds little hope, but listens to each word,
he knows his life's not going anywhere,
just like the saddest song we've ever heard.
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