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Music: Frank Wildhorn You never remind me of Paris in Spring A Rembrandt, I find, to my mind you don't bring There's no work of art could start to compare You never remind me of pricey French wine Or tuxedoed gents who have dinner at nine Every other man is Vin Ordinaire You're so unique I find So well-designed That every single thing about you Reminds me of only you You never remind me of summers in Spain The sun when it's setting, the sound of the rain New Years with Dick Clark, or Park Avenue You never remind me of Sir Lancelot My memory of him is totally shot Kind Midas touch, not much next to you 'Cause if the truth be known When we're alone Then every single thing about you Reminds me of only you You never remind me of gods that are Greek My dear, And though I may hang on each word that you speak It's clear Ahead and behind me I lose track of all events And as a consequence you are my present tense You never remind me of anyone who Reminds me of anyone other than you Compare though I will, I still can't equate 'Cause when you're here with me Then vis-vis You raise the heat repeatedly So if I forget to recall Remind me again, that's all