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