Marianne Faithfull

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 shed 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 shed memorised in her daddys easy chair.
Her husband, hes 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