[VERSE 1] I met a girl from Paris, I asked if she spoke French. She said, "Oui." Well, that settled the suspense. A promising beginning to an otherwise poor decision, I was charming in the abstract, and alarming with precision. She had a taste for contradiction, I had a talent for excess, a conversational contortionist with an appetite for things I couldn't digest. [PRE-CHORUS] We drank to independence, then depended on the wine. She had a head for revolution, I had a face for being shot, a disproportionate reaction to a relatively harmless thought. [CHORUS] She says, she says, "Tu ne me plais pas tant que ça." And oh, the sweet sophistication of a beautifully worded rejection. I fell in love with the pronunciation, completely missed the translation. [Post chorus] Amateur romantic, professionally regret it, I eat semantics, je me sens fantastique. Tragique, magnifique, diplomatique, dramatique, she was trying to be polite, I was trying to be unique. Non, merci, non, merci, sounds an awful lot like "no mercy." Oh là là, c'est la vie, what a lovely little tragedy! [VERSE 2] I've got a gift for conversation when I'm speaking with my friends, but I keep hearing beginnings where somebody meant an end. She was careful with her language, I was careless with the signs, making something out of nothing and then claiming it was mine. [INTERLUDE] C'est fini, c'est fini. What a lovely little melody. Pas de nous, pas de nous. I was making plans for a rendez-vous. Tu parles trop, mon cher. Oh, but darling, that's not fair. I could talk about the weather till we're both no longer there. There's a difference between forecasts and the actual weather. Some things fall apart without ever coming together. [CHORUS] She says, she says, "Tu ne me plais pas tant que ça." And oh, the sweet sophistication of a beautifully worded rejection. I fell in love with the pronunciation, completely missed the translation. [POST-CHORUS ] Amateur romantic, professionally regret it, I eat semantics, je me sens fantastique. Fantastique, fantastique, a little lost in the technique, [BRIDGE] A minor international incident of intimacy. No diplomatic immunity, no mutual exclusivity. Two incompatible versions of an otherwise lovely evening. And the truth is so pedestrian, so offensively mundane: She's just not into me. No matter what I heard in my head. [BREAKDOWN] Au revoir, au revoir. I was hoping for au contraire. Mon ami, mon ami. That's a little less romantic than it sounds to me. C'est la vie, c'est la vie. A disappointing little epiphany. Sans moi, sans moi. I keep hearing "some more, some more." [FINAL CHORUS ] She says, she says, "Tu ne me plais pas tant que ça." And oh, the sweet sophistication of a beautifully worded rejection. I fell in love with the pronunciation, completely missed the translation. [OUTRO] She's speaking French again, and I'm nodding, I'm nodding. She's posing for a sketch again, she's modeling, modeling. She's making perfect sense again, I'm applauding, applauding. She's putting on her coat again, I'm stalling, I'm stalling. Oh là là, mon ami, quelle drôle de tragédie. Oh là là, c'est la vie, je me sens fantastique. Amateur romantic, professionally regret it, I eat semantics Je me sens fantastique. Fantastique. Fantastique. ...C'est fini.
