I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.  
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.