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Your lips, Louise, are church doors
Which I enter in the morning, hat in hand.
Your lips, Louise, do you think what they say to me
Or is it a camisole, the ruby u200bu200bof a butt?
After all, it doesn't matter where I light my cigarette
In the first light of day or in the wrath of love
If mine turn gray at your lips, Louise
On your lips, Louise, mine are seated.
I no longer lift my buttocks from this mass bench.
Your lips, Louise believe- you what they tell me
Or is this basilica a bandstand?
After all it doesn't matter where I light my cigarette
If it's not love, it's the surroundings
If mine turn gray at your lips, Louise.
Your letter, Louise, arrived today.
From your cherry lips, they bear the seal.
Your lips , Louise, give me leave.
My rage is exhausted on my bitten nails.
Paris contains you and I am jealous like a dog.
I will come back to scratch at your door.
Your lips are closed, Louise, you're sending me to the roses
Tell me something... Nothing.
Louise I don't want you to spend the night anymore
At the bottom of the avenue, under an umbrella.