She wasn’t damned It’s a luck of faith she was born As a French and all the glam Of this world is meant for her. She’s so keen But I know that she’s really bored. Her skin is really thin, It merely holds all the whoredom.
CHORUS: Cry, cry, cry French girl. I like to see tears drip from your fine curls Girl, girl, girl.
French girl has Dolce Gabbana fancy dress But her soul is a frightful mess Dirty mess that you can’t suppress Come and see Don’t touch with dirty hands How pure the soul can be When the hate is all that it has
CHORUS
Hu-huh Here goes the glamour Hi, Eiffel tower You’ll go bananas, be torn into pieces.