There will be a sweet taste in the air
From industrial waste in the air
And your eyelids will smart from the sting of the smog in the spring of next year

There will be a black slick on the Seine
And the sludge will be thick on the Seine
And your eardrums will thrill to the ring of the axe in the spring of next year

Ah, the apple trees blooming
As they're crushed into pulp
There'll be smokestacks consuming
Each availablе gulp
That's inhalable

But the moment most thrilling bеgins
When the pneumatic drilling begins
It's a song that all Paris will sing in the bountiful spring of next year

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

You'll be watching the statues corrode
We'll be hearing the fountains explode
It's a song that the hatchets will ring and the derricks will swing and all Paris will sing in the bountiful spring of next year