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.
