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)