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Up every morning long before day |
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Cooking her breakfast alone |
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She quietly dresses and pulls up the shade |
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And sits in the chair by the phone |
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But nobody ever comes by anymore |
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Nobody ever calls |
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Most days she sits and just stares |
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At the windows and walls |
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Windows and walls |
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Children all married, husband's passed on |
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Nothing but time on her hands |
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Most of her mornings are spent in her dreams |
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Or making her sad little plans |
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Maybe she'll go to the corner today |
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And pick up the new McCall's |
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If just to escape for an hour from her windows and walls |
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Windows and walls, windows and walls |
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The clock on the mantel chiming the hours |
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Must be the loneliest sound |
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She washes her dishes and waters her flowers |
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And afterwards has to sit down |
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Sometimes she still can remember a child |
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Playing with china dolls |
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Now all that she's left |
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Are these memories and windows and walls |
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Windows and walls |
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Windows and walls |
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Windows and walls (day after day).... |
