La lune trop bleme pose un diademe sur tes cheveux
roux
La lune trop rousse de gloire eclabousse ton jupon
plein d'trous
La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes yeux blases
Princesse de la rue soit la bienvenue dans mon coeur
brise
Chorus:
The stairways up to la butte
Can make the wreched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulin
shelter you and I
Original Song:
[Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux
Les ailes du moulin protegent les amoureux]
Petite mandigotte je sens ta menotte qui cherche ma
main
Je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine
J'oublie mon chagrin
Je sens sur tes levres une odeur de fievre de gosse
mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse je sens une ivresse qui m'aneantit
Chorus:
The stairways up to la butte
Can make the wreched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulin
shelter you and I
Original Song:
[Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux
Les ailes du moulin protegent les amoureux]
Et voila qu'elle trotte la lune qui flotte, la princesse
aussi
La da da da da da da da da da
Mes reves epanouis
Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux
Les ailes du moulin protegent les amoureux
English Translation:
The moon, all too fair, in your russet-red hair sets
a sparkling crown
The moon, all too red with glory, is spread on your
poor, tattered gown
The moon, all too white, caresses the light in your
world-weary eyes
Princess of the street, do allow me to greet you,
my broken heart cries
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on
the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
I feel, beggar-girl, your fetters, they curl as they
seek out my wrists
I feel your young breasts, your thin little waist
I lose my regrets
I taste on your mouth the feverish breath of a half-starving
waif
And with your caress I sense drunkenness erasing my
life
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on
the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
And see how she skips, the moon how she drifts,
The princess in tow
Da da da da da da da da da da
My reveries grow
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on
the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
Christian:
It was the year of 1899, the summer of love.
I knew nothing of the Mouin Rouge, Zidler or Satine. The country
was being swept up in the Bohemian Revolution and I had come to Paris to
be a part of it. I stayed on a small hill outside of Paris call Momarte.
It was not as my father had said.
Father:
A village of sin.
Christian:
But a place of poets, musicians and artists.
They called themselves the children of the revolution. Yes I had
come to live a penniless existence to write about truth, beauty, freedom
and that which I believed in above all else, love.
Father:
Always this rediculous obsession with love.
Christian:
There was only one problem. I had never been
in love. Luckily at that moment an unconcious Argentinian fell through
my roof. He was followed swiftly by a dwarf dressed as a nun.
