Paris Spleen

Your heroin sweats, your tunnel black eyes,
your prostitution alleys and gaunt Madonna sighs,
your Mati Hari hips, your film noir scenes,
your punk rock boots and your pill bottle schemes.
You got that Paris spleen,
Honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen,
honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
Your Marquis de Sade, your marble white neck,
your art deco soul and your car crash sex,
your demolition heart, your back stage strut,
the way you shut your eyes
when you call someone a cunt.
You got that Paris spleen,
Honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen,
honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
Your suicide poets, your New York Dolls,
your black t-shirts and your ambulance calls,
your secret diaries, your hair dress queens,
your burned out lipstick and your dirty limousines.
You got that Paris spleen,
Honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen,
honey, I said oh, you got that Paris spleen.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
You know I’ve never been, you know I’ve never been.
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