Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours.
Il pleure dans mon cœur Comme il pleut sur la ville.
Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle*, et janséniste !
Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance.
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches Et puis voici mon cœur, qui ne bat que pour vous.
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
© 2026 My French LLC
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