THE BALLAD OF LUCY JORDAN

by 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 realized 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

pretty nursery rhymes she’d memorized

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 realized 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 shed memorized

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,

as 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…