She had under her furry hat,
on the mound Montmartre,
an innocent little look.
People called her rose, she was pretty,
she smelled good - like a new flower,
Saint-Vincent street.
Nobody knew her father,
she had no mother,
and since 1900,
she lived at her old grandmothers
Where she raised herself like that, all alone,
Saint-Vincent street.
She already worked to live
and on frosted nights,
in the dark and freezing cold,
her little scarf on her shoulders,
she returned home by Saules street,
Saint-Vincent street.
She could see in the frozen nights,
the starry sky,
and the crescent moon
shinning, white and fateful
on the small cross of the basilica,
Saint-Vincent street.
Summer, by the hot dusk
she met Jules,
who was so sweet,
that she stayed the entire night,
with him near the old cemetery,
Saint-Vincent street.
But little Jules was a thug
who pimps the chicks,
so the teenager,
seeing that she wouldn't go along with it,
by a hit of a blade pierced her stomach,
Saint-Vincent street.
When they laid her down on the stretcher,
she was all white,
while burying her,
the undertakers said that the poor child
was killed the day of her honeymoon,
Saint-Vincent street.
She had under her furry hat,
on the mound Montmartre,
an innocent little look.
People called her rose, she was pretty,
she smelled good - like a new flower,
Saint-Vincent street.