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"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
and she sat there softly singing
Little 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..."