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The mornin' sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy Jordan |
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In her white suburban bedroom, in a white suburban town |
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As she lay there 'neath the covers, dreaming of a thousand lovers |
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'Til the world turned to orange and the room went spinnin' round |
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At the age of 37, she realised she'd never ride through Paris |
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In a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair |
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And she let the phone keep ringin' as she sat there softly singin' |
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Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair |
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Her husband, he was off to work, and the kids were off to school |
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And there were oh so many ways for her to spend her day |
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She could clean the house for hours, or rearrange the flowers |
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Or run naked down the shady street screaming all the way |
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At the age of 37, she realised she'd never ride through Paris |
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In a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair |
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And she let that phone keep ringin' as she sat there softly singin' |
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Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair |
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The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy Jordan |
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On the rooftop where she'd climbed when all the laughter grew too loud |
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And she bowed and curtseyed to the man, who reached and offered her his hand |
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And led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd |
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At the age of 37, she knew she'd found forever as they rode along through Paris |
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With the warm wind in her hair |
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Ooooohhh yes with the wind in her hair oooooohhhh...... |
