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
'Til 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
As she sat there softly singing
Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised
From her daddy's easy chair

Her husband, he was off to work
And the kids were 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 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
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 led her down to the long white car
That waited past the crowd

At the age of thirty-seven
She had finally found her heaven
As they rode along through Paris
With the warm wind in her hair