.Elle avait sous sa toque de martre,
Sur la butte Montmartre,
Un p'tit air innocent.
On l'appelait rose, elle? Tait belle,
A' sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
Rue Saint-Vincent.
Elle avait pas connu son p? Re,
Elle avait p'us d'm? Re,
Et depuis 1900,
A' d'meurai.
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