The morning sun touched lightly on
The eyes of Lucy Jordan
In her white suburban bedroom
In a white suburban town,
As she lay there ‘neath the covers,
Dreaming of a thousand lovers,
Till the world turned to orange
And the room went spinning ’round.
At the age of 37
She realized 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
Little nursery rhymes she’d memorized
In her daddy’s easy chair.
Her husband is off to work,
And the kids are off to school,
And there were, 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 streets,
Screaming all the way!
At the age of 37
She realized 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
Little nursery rhymes she’d memorized
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 37
She knew she’d found forever,
As she rolled along through Paris
With the warm wind in her hair.
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