In vain I searched for our dear old Lady
In the fields of France, of poppy and daisy.
I heard but the sigh
Of an age gone by,
“Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.”*
She watched Paris with a motherly gaze,
Watched the poor, the war, and a city ablaze.
While the deep unrest
Swept from East to West,
Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.
Alas, the fires came for Our Lady
Through smoke that rendered her beauty hazy.
The hand, reached for G-d,
Was struck, returned to clod.
Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.
In vain I searched for our dear old Lady
In the State of York. Illusions of safety
Where Liberty dies,
Amid the soft sighs
Of “Ce’st dommage, et c’est la vie.”
Yet She stands still, fading, wielding Her torch
And dares not march down past Liberty’s porch.
Where Liberty dies,
Our rights it decries
With “C’est dommage, et c’est la vie.”
They preach progress, but history repeats,
And alas the drum of hate beats, beats, beats.
In our delusion,
In our confusion,
Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.
Says the new world, “What righteous few are we,”
While in her indulgence scorns liberty,
In her pride, she’ll fall;
She’ll heed not the call
Of “C’est dommage, et c’est la vie.”
Thus tear not the fences that blocked the way--
The grazers of the roots that grew Her hay.
Sacrificed ideals
Grant us no appeals.
Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.
We were born to burn for holier flames,
Not to play these games, but to break off chains.
Such ideals are lost
At Liberty’s cost.
Mais c’est dommage, et c’est la vie.
*”But it’s a pity, and it’s life” /mei sɛ doʊ-mɑːdʒ /,/ɛ sɛ lʌ viː/
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