Noches de Montmartre

Luxury doll, painted lips,
Silhouette drawn with great chic.
Long live your mother, goddaughter, speak Italian,
Montmartre is light, cocktail, Tower of Babel.

Abyss of the fool, port of the cunning,
Showcase of vices without a counter,
Where gold is exchanged for lies,
And false love is bought in cash.

Montmartre, Place Pigalle at midnight,
Montmartre, courtesan in a grand carriage.
Kisses... the last sip of champagne
You will drink in the perfumed mouth of the woman from Paris.

Jazz bands and balalaikas, and bandoneons,
A thousand kisses, a thousand women, the carnival
Of the world all year round, parades, passions
Unleashes its revelry here in Montmartre.

While in the dark deserted street,
Leaning against the door of a bistro,
Mimi with hunger and cold, remembers the old,
Romantic Montmartre that passed by yesterday.

Montmartre, Place Pigalle at midnight,
Montmartre, courtesan in a grand carriage.
Kisses, champagne, the last sip
You will drink in the perfumed mouth of the woman from Paris.