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 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. (chorus). .