The mechanic escalators,
Automatic gates,
Corridors of correspondance
Peak hours and affluence
Mosaic doors,
Fantastic labyrinth,
And always, running
The people that go and come
And still, running
The same people that return
And the subway that strolls under Paris
Sweetly dashes and then flies
Flies on the corners of Paris
The silly young girls that scamper along
The workers that walk
The typists that hurry
The soldiers that are eager
The employees that stand about
The lovers that gather around
And always, running
The people that go and come
And still, running
The same people that return
And the subway that strolls under Paris
Sweetly dashes and then flies
Flies on the corners of Paris
The mechanic escalators,
Automatic gates,
The noise of steps that reverberate
In the monotonous corridors
Fantastic Basilica
In the electric suburb,
The Paris subway,
Gigantic across, gleaming
On the corners of Paris
That have weaved the sons of money
And, sweetly,
It stretches on the corners of Paris
And glides, glides, glides, glides, glides...