| She sits there on her front porch every day at 4 o’clock
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| Waving at the traffic that runs up and down the block
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| Her face and hands are wrinkled and her grey hair almost shines
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| Over 50 years have come and gone since she was in her prime.
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| A high school girl in blue jeans stops each Thursday afternoon
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| They talk about life and love and phases of the moon
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| She lets the girl try on her gown she’s kept for all these years
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| She talks about when she was young, her old eyes filled with tears.
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| Didn’t she really thrill them back in 1924
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| Young men fell in love with her
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| When she came through the door
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| Every dance was taken
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| Still they’d ask for just one more
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| Oh she stole their hearts away in 1924
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| She holds a photo album as she rocks there in her chair
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| Here’s the men she almost married — they all look so debonair
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| She remembers all the faces and the night each one proposed
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| It makes her feel so young again as her old eyes slowly close.
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| The papers never said much when the old maid passed away
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| For the man who drove the moving-van it was just another day
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| The florist never understood when the young girl left the store
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| Just why she sent a wreath that said from the class of '24.
|
| Didn’t she really thrill them back in 1924
|
| Young men fell in love with her
|
| When she came through the door
|
| Every dance was taken
|
| Still they’d ask for just one more
|
| Oh she stole their hearts away in 1924.
|
| Didn’t she really thrill them back in 1924
|
| Young men fell in love with her
|
| When she came through the door
|
| Every dance was taken
|
| Still they’d ask for just one more
|
| Oh she stole their hearts away in 1924. |