in france when one is walking sadly they say he walks clopin clopant his step is slow, his fault is badly perhaps the one he loves is gone clopin clopant i hear his footsteps as in the night he passes by and as i hear his endless footsteps i get to thinking they\'ll go out i\'ll go along clopin clopant whispering he\'s gone, he is gone, he is gone my childish heart cries like a baby without my love what will each day be? so i go on clopin clopant trudging alone clopin clopant love is a dance and one must learn it i had my chance, why did i spurn it? what can i do? why carry on? going alone clopin clopant, clopin clopant, clopin clopant...
