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Excerpt from Chansons Parisiennes
Pendant six mois ce fut tout rose. L'amour, c'est toujours même chose C'est toujours ce même vin vieux Qu'on boit dans un seul verre. A deux. C'est encore aussi. Quoi qu'on dise. Le seul vrai bonheur, car il grise.. Puis, avec le fumet du vin.
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