.Pommes, pommes, pommes, c'est l'automne
Si monotone, c'est triste, triste, triste.
Les feuilles mortes, les flaques d'eau
Le vent dans la ruelle qui emporte les journaux.
à Boulogne, c'est de saison
Les enfants ramassent des marrons.
En caressant l'automne, un balayeur fredonne.
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