In the half-tone light of a young morning
she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
to kiss the Pussy Willow.
In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing
in a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believing
for her white knight to appear.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train - see, eight o'clock's coming
cutting dreams down to size again.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.

She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
an apartment in old Mayfair.
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
or to die for a cause somewhere.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.

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