Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
La vie humble aux travaux ennuyeux et faciles Est une œuvre de choix qui veut beaucoup d'amour.
Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon cœur D'une langueur Monotone.
Baiser ! rose trémière au jardin des caresses !
Ô qui dira les torts de la Rime ! Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou Nous a forgé ce bijou d'un sou Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime ?
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
Il pleure dans mon cœur Comme il pleut sur la ville.
© 2026 My French LLC
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