When I was seventeen. It was a vary good year. It was a very good year for small town girls and soft summer nights. We'd hide from the lights. On the village green. When I was seventeen. When I was twentyone. It was a very good year. It was a very good year for city girls. Who lived up the stair. With all the perfume hair. And it came undone. When I was twentyone. When I was thirtyfive. It was a vary good year. It was a very good year for blue blooded girls of indipendant means. We'd hide in limousenes. There chouffers would drive. When I was thirtyfive. But now the days are short. I'm in the autumn of the year. And now I think of my life as village wine from fine old keggs. From the brim to the dreggs. It poured sweet and clear. It was a very good year.