The moon, all too fair, in your russet-red hair sets a sparkling crown 
The moon, all too red with glory, is spread on your poor, tattered gown 
The moon, all too white, caresses the light in your world-weary eyes 
Princess of the street, do allow me to greet you, my broken heart cries

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor 
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours

I feel, beggar-girl, your fetters, they curl as they seek out my wrists 
I feel your young breasts, your thin little waist 
I lose my regrets 
I taste on your mouth the feverish breath of a half-starving waif 
And with your caress I sense drunkenness erasing my life

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor 
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours

And see how she skips, the moon how she drifts, 
The princess in tow 
Da da da da da da da da da da 
My reveries grow

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor 
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours

Dammitall, anyway.