I left you bleeding in Alsace-Lorraine
from the dozen roses rife with thorns,
each a story meant to wound.
For not often did I tell you the truth.
In Marseilles, we drowned in wine
mixed with tears and terrible fears,
and in the shadow of a doubt
I played the sun, the future husband.
I try to forget Paris, ten thousand smiles
And songs that said I love you.
All that remains is the long cold walk
Of regret for all I’ve done.