You have Got the Air of a Song
With simple wordsAnd your heavy airWith words of loveWhich you don't always understandYou've the air of a (love) songWhich is sung at home
There are days on which you knowYou are not a successThere are days on which your fatherIsn't exactly Prévert*But you've the air of a songWhich is sung in a group of boys
My woman, la la la la la la..My woman, la la la la la la..
It's been ages sinceI have you in my headYou're not 'La Madelon'*But you've the air of a songWhich had fit well to other warsIn those where I was the opponent..
Well, though there were crisesIn despite of my many escapesLike the time of the cherriesYou turned back to fashionYou've the air of a songPlayed on his violin..
My woman, la la la la la la..My woman, la la la la la la..
You were made of what?Four pinches of chalkTwo-Third breezes of joyAnd many draftsAnd you are telling what?A story which I like..
If I'm not alwaysThere, in all those versesI'll be back in the chorusAnd I'm called loveYou were made of what?You were made of me..
My woman, la la la la la la..My woman, la la la la la la..
There are days on which you knowYou are not a successThere are days on which your fatherIsn't exactly PrévertBut you are the songWhich must not end..
I play you for a long timeI often fool myselfBecause for so many timesI got to know you through heartI'm still afraidThat I can't withhold you..
My woman, la la la la la la..My woman, la la la la la la.