When Joanna loved me, every town was Paris;
And every day was Sunday: Every month was May.
When Joanna loved me, every sound was music;
It was music made of laughter-
Laughter that was bright and gay.
But when Joanna left me: May became December.
But even in December, I remember:
Her touch, her smile-
And for a little while;
She loves me!
And once again, it’s Paris:
Paris is on Sunday:
And the month is May.
And the month is May.