| It was a teenage wedding
|
| And the old folks wished them well
|
| You could see that pierre
|
| Did truly love the mademoiselle
|
| And now the young monsieur and madame
|
| Have rung the chapel bell
|
| «c'est la vie», say the old folks
|
| It goes to slow you never can tell
|
| They furnished off an apartment
|
| With a two room roebuck sale
|
| The coolerator was crammed
|
| With t.v. |
| dimmers and ginger ale
|
| But when pierre found work
|
| The little money comin' worked out well
|
| «c'est la vie», say the old folks
|
| It goes to show you never can tell
|
| They had a hi-fi phono
|
| Boy did they let it blast
|
| Seven hundred little records
|
| All rockin' rhythm and jazz
|
| But when the sun went down
|
| The rapid tempo of the music fell
|
| «c'est la vie», say the old folks
|
| It goes to show you never can tell
|
| They bought a souped-up jitney
|
| T’was a cherry-red fifty nine
|
| They drove it down to new orleans
|
| To celebrate their anniversary
|
| It was there that pierre
|
| Was wedded to the lovely mad’moiselle
|
| «c'est la vie», say the old folks
|
| It goes to show you never can tell |