The morning sun touched gently 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 realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the worm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
the nursery rhymes she'd memorize
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 a day.
She could clean the house for hours
or re-arrange the flowers
or make it through the shady stream
screaming all the way.
At the age of thirty-seven
she realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the worm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
the nursery rhymes she'd memorize
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 cursed to the man
who reached out off to her his hands
and led her down to a long white car
that waited, past the crowd.
At the age of thirty-seven
she knew that she'd found heaven
as she rode along through Paris
with the worm wind in her hair.