| In the half-tone light of a young morning
|
| She sighs and shifts on the pillow
|
| And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
|
| To kiss the Pussy Willow
|
| In her fairy-tale world she’s a lost soul singing
|
| In a sad voice nobody hears
|
| She waits in her castle of make-believe
|
| For her white knight to appear
|
| Pussy Willow down fur-lined avenue
|
| Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes
|
| Runs for the train, see: eight o’clock’s coming
|
| Cutting dreams down to size again
|
| Pussy Willow down fur-lined avenue
|
| Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes
|
| Runs from the train. |
| Hear her typewriter humming
|
| Cutting dreams down to size again
|
| She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
|
| An apartment in old Mayfair
|
| Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
|
| Or to die for a cause somewhere
|
| Pussy Willow down fur-lined avenue
|
| Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes
|
| Runs from the train. |
| Hear her typewriter humming
|
| Cutting dreams down to size again
|
| Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow |