Madame Ivonne

Mademoiselle, Ivonne was a young girl
In the real neighborhood of old Montmartre.
With her tough look of a cheerful girl
She brightened the parties of that boulevard.
She was the doll of the Latin quarter
Who knew how to inspire the points of the verse,
Until one day an Argentine fell for her
And made the little French girl sigh.

Madame Ivonne,
The Southern Cross was like a fate;
Madame Ivonne,
It was like the fate of your luck...
Grey lark,
Your pain moves me,
Your sorrow is of snow,
Madame Ivonne...

Ten years have passed since she sailed from France,
Mademoiselle Ivonne is now just 'Madame',
Seeing that everything remained in the distance
With very sad eyes, she drinks her champagne...
She is no longer the doll of the Latin quarter;
She is no longer the charming little flower of lilies...
She has nothing left, not even that Argentine
Who, between tango and mate, lifted her from Paris.