He dances down the canals

����������� And spins with his arms out,

Painting black and white water

���������������������� Purple and green

��������� As he dreams of tulips

He hears opera and understands

��������������� Even though he doesn�t know the language

Mushrooms flutter on the soles of his feet

���������������� And the feet of his soul

��� He eats gouda

���������������������� And cries

����� About trees

���������������� As he begs to become one.

At one with the butterflies and orchids,

�� He revels in the dirt on his hands

������������� And the smoke in his lungs

�� He knows he�s too young to think these thoughts.

������������������ Too old to love me.

��������� Too smart to rationalize,

So he looks into my eyes

����������������������������� And I realize

�������� Paris is not for me.