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.