| You turn to the sinister when you get the boot
|
| Sliding down the banister in your Sunday suit
|
| Lying on a slag heap of blankets and magazines
|
| She’s only thirty-five going on seventeen
|
| You’d better roll over and go to sleep if you don’t come clean
|
| (And in every home)
|
| And in every home there will be lots of time
|
| I will be all yours you might have been admired
|
| And in every home there will be lots of time
|
| They say they’re very sorry but you are not desired
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Because they don’t deserve us
|
| Holding your life in your hand
|
| With an artificial limp wrist
|
| And so a young blade becomes a has-been
|
| Looking for a new twist
|
| A year after the wedding he broke all their china plates
|
| He’s in prison now she’s running with his mates
|
| Sees him every Sunday
|
| And he asks her where she’s been
|
| She’s only thirty-five going on seventeen
|
| She’s going to cop a packet if he ever finds her
|
| In between the sheets
|
| (And in every home)
|
| And in every home there will be lots of time
|
| I will be all yours you might have been admired
|
| And in every home there will be lots of time
|
| They say they’re very sorry but you are not desired
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Because they don’t deserve us
|
| And in every home there will be lots of time
|
| I will be all yours you might have been admired
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Oh heaven preserve us
|
| Because they don’t deserve us
|
| And in every home
|
| And in every home
|
| And in every home
|
| And in every home |