I was on the left-bank in a cafe
With a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other
I had spent the afternoon reading Sartre
Making quite sure everybody could see the cover

I was thinking to myself how well the waiter
Was suited to his job, as he brought me some more wine
Then I looked at my book and as if by chance
I glanced at the following line:

“Reality is what it is not and is not what it is”
“Reality is what it is not and is not what it is”
Okay...

Is a table really a table?
Is a chair really a chair?
I'm not sure I really care
By the way, have you seen Pierre?

I'm feeling somewhat pissed
And slightly nauseous
It probably means I don't exist
Existential crisis in Paris!

I was at the top of the Eiffel Tower
Watching the Parisian lovers
It's funny how the label of tourist
Never applies to oneself, it's just a name we give to others

I was browsing through the leather bookmarks
And pencil sharpeners on sale in the gift shop
When I realised that if I didn't really exist
It wouldn't matter if I jumped off the top

“Reality is what it is not and is not what it is”
“Reality is what it is not and is not what it is”
Okay...

I don't feel quite myself
Has the wine gone to my head?
It probably means I'm dead
In any case, I'll have another glass of red

Am I making sense?
It's hard to tell, I must confess
Is this being or nothingness?
Existential crisis in Paris!