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The Ballad of Lucy Jordan



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

Till 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

the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud

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...

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan



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

Till 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

the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud

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...

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