Oh, Paree.
To walk upon your mismatched cobblestones, to pace myself under the dull, yellow streetlights, to breathe in the cold, raspy air of the Seine, to mark my strolls by churches and squares. How I miss your polite bakers and cheery waiters and noisy churches and cheeky mall guards. To stroll along the trimmed Tuileries, to dance amidst Rodin's sculpture Garden. I had only just directed my first few travelers along the subway, Paree. I was just only about stopped twice for directions in French, Paree.
Wolfing piping hot bland crepes in front of the Eiffel, shouldering my way through Champs Elysees, my first Gianvito Rossis, my first Hermes.
You've gone and left a mark now, Paree.
To walk upon your mismatched cobblestones, to pace myself under the dull, yellow streetlights, to breathe in the cold, raspy air of the Seine, to mark my strolls by churches and squares. How I miss your polite bakers and cheery waiters and noisy churches and cheeky mall guards. To stroll along the trimmed Tuileries, to dance amidst Rodin's sculpture Garden. I had only just directed my first few travelers along the subway, Paree. I was just only about stopped twice for directions in French, Paree.
Wolfing piping hot bland crepes in front of the Eiffel, shouldering my way through Champs Elysees, my first Gianvito Rossis, my first Hermes.
You've gone and left a mark now, Paree.
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