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