Sync Different

WE MAY FALL IN LOVE

Music by Julien Vega
Lyrics by John Greaves & Julien vega

I don’t want to fall in love
It’s not a game I wish to choose
Sweet as your advances are
I must regrettably refuse

Love Is just a game of fools
So maybe we could bend the rules

Play the game, lose every time
You bet a dollar, win a dime

I will take that broken heart and heal it
Maybe there will come a day you’ll feel it

‘cause there is something you can’t disguise
There in your eyes
We may fall in love

Will I ever love again, Will I? Will I?
Let me wash away the pain
Love is meant for other men Not I Not I
Let me help you love again
There is such a lot to find
Circumstances
But you need an open mind
Please don’t take this personally,
Take some chances
It simply wasn’t means to be.

I will take that broken heart and heal it
But I can’t let you do it
Maybe there will come a day you’ll feel it
I am impervious to it

But there is something you can’t disguise
I see it in your eyes
We may fall in love
Tonight

FARMER GIRL

Music by Julien Vega
Lyrics by John Greaves & Julien Vega

HERE ALL ALONE IN THE CORNFIELD AT NIGHT
THE SKY’S FULL OF STARS
AND THE MOON’S SHINING BRIGHT
IF ONLY I COULD FLY OFF LIKE A BIRD,
FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY, LIKE A BLUE BIRD.

Chorus

I’LL BE DANCER TWIRLING AROUND
AN ACTRESS, A SINGER, A BEAUTY QUEEN CROWNED
MY FACE WILL BE SEEN IN EVERY MAGAZINE
FROM PARIS TO L. A.
FROM NEW YORK TO BOMBAY
FARMER GIRL, FARMER GIRL, FLY AWAY ! (DREAM AWAY)

MY MA AND PA BOTH WORK HARD ON THE LAND,
I DO MY DAMNEDEST TO LEND THEM A HAND,
I COULD NOT STAND ALL THE STRUGGLE AND STRIFE
FARMER GIRL, FARMER’S WIFE…NOT ON YOUR LIFE.

Chorus

I JUST CAN’T LIVE LIKE A BIRD IN A CAGE
EACH DAY THAT GOES BY SEEMS MORE LIKE AN AGE
INTO THE NIGHT SKY AWAY I WILL FLY
FLY AWAY FLY AWAY LIKE A BLUEBIRD

I’LL BE DANCER TWIRLING AROUND
AN ACTRESS, A SINGER, A BEAUTY QUEEN CROWNED
MY FACE WILL BE SEEN IN EVERY MAGAZINE
FROM PARIS TO L. A.
FROM NEW YORK TO BOMBAY
ALL THIS I’LL ACHIEVE
CALL ME NAÏVE
BUT I BELIEVE
DREAMS CAN COME TRUE

ParisT'as l'palpitant à Notre-DameMais l'Amour c'est rue d'AmsterdamQu'on l'achète, pour des picaillons,Mêm' à c'prix là parfois c'est bon
ParisT'as la tête au creux des nuagesLa Tour Eiffel et trois étagesQui scintillent quand arriv' le soirDès fois qu'tu vois tout trop en noir
ParisT'as les pieds au bord de la SeineOù s'noie l’chagrin quand t’as d’la peineSous des vagues de mélancolieAu son des orgu' de Barbarie
ParisT’as les esgourd' qu’ont des bouchonsA caus' de la circulationT’as plus vingt berges et dans ta voixQuand tu gamberges ça n’est plus toi

ParisT'as les poumons dans l' Bois d'VincennesDans l’Bois d'Boulogne des phénomènesQui respirent un parfum d’amour
Qui ne durera pas toujours

ParisDans tes veines y a l'métro qui ramePour écouler tous les quidamsQui s'serrent les coudes au p'tit matinPour s'faufiler jusqu'au turbin
ParisT’as les tripes au Quartier LatinQuand vient l’mois d’Mai et dans la mainTu tiens l'fusil ou bien l' canonA l'heur' de la Révolution
ParisY a tes peintres qui t'font des couleursDes piqu'assiettes qui n'ont pas peurD'impressionner dans les salonsTime is Monet ou Valadon
ParisT'as tant d'amour dans tes chansonsQu'parfois on en perd la raisonQu'on se les siffle à tout bout d'champEt parfois mêm' aux enterr'ments


English translation :

PARIS
ParisYour heart is in Notre DameBut love, it’s in rue d’AmsterdamWhere you buy it for peanuts
ParisYour head is nestled in the cloudsThe Eiffel Tower and its three storiesWhich sparkle as night fallsIf ever you looking on the dark side
ParisYour feet on the bank of the SeineWhere sadness drowns when you’re in painUnder waves of melancholyTo the sound of the barrel organ
Paris,Your ears are blockedBecause of the trafficYou’re no longer twenty and in your voiceI you think about itIt’s no longer you
ParisYour lungs are in the Bois de VincennesAnd in the Bois de Boulogne these creaturesWho breeze a perfume of loveWhich will not last forever
ParisIn your veins there’s the metro striving
To circulate your populationCrushed together in the early morningOn their way to work
ParisYour guts are in the Latin QuarterWhen the month of May comes aroundPistol in your hand or even the canonAt the hour of the Revolution
ParisPainters fill you with coloursScroungers

unafraidTo make an impression in the salonsTime is Monet or Valadon
ParisSo much love in your songsSometimes loosing our heads in themWhistling them at every turnAnd sometimes even at funerals