.Les chansons de Prévert me reviennent
De tous les souffleurs de verre, laine.
Du vieux Ferré, des cris, la tempete.
Boris Vian, ca s'écrit à la trompette.
Rive gauche à Paris, adieu mon pays
De musique et de poésie, des marchands malappris
Qui, d'ailleurs ont déjÃ.
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