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We open on Lucille, a trollop so twisted She weeps on the inside so no one can listen She's haunted by the ghost of a desolate past And longs for a white picket fence with green grass She used to believe in bohemian beauty But now she's a victim of mischevious duty The poor young girl shreds on the ivory With a voice that soars on the wings of sweet melody Drink up, boys, while she sings you a tune It's almost last call, we'll all be home soon This room is filled with drunken audacity With rips in her dress, she can't hide the fact that she's selling herself short And every day she remembers the day that she took down her baby and gave it away to the river bed Drink up, boys, while she sings you a tune It's almost last call, so let's have a little dance! I want to live on the edge of the world so no one can bother me From Letras Mania