| Seven A.M., the usual morning line-up
|
| Start on the chores, and sweep 'til the floor's all clean
|
| Polish and wax, do laundry and mop and shine up
|
| Sweep again
|
| And by then
|
| It's, like, seven-fifteen
|
| And so I'll read a book
|
| Or maybe two or three
|
| I'll add a few new paintings
|
| To my gallery
|
| I'll play guitar and knit and cook
|
| And basic'ly
|
| Just wonder, when will my life begin?
|
| Then, after lunch, it's puzzles, and darts and baking...
|
| Papier-mach?, a bit of ballet, and chess...
|
| Pottery and ventriloquy, candle-making...
|
| Then I'll stretch
|
| Maybe sketch
|
| Take a climb
|
| Sew a dress
|
| And I'll re-read the books
|
| If I have time to spare
|
| I'll paint the wall some more
|
| I'm sure there's room somewhere
|
| And then I'll brush, and brush
|
| And brush, and brush my hair
|
| Stuck in the same place I've always been
|
| And I'll keep won'dring
|
| And won'dring
|
| And won'dring
|
| And won'dring
|
| When will my life begin?
|
| Tomorrow night...
|
| The lights will appear
|
| Just like they do on my birthday each year
|
| What is it like
|
| Out there where they glow?
|
| Now that I'm older
|
| Mother might just let me go... |