When I was seventeen, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for small town girls and soft summer nights. We'd hide from the light on the village green when I was seventeen. When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for city girls who lived up the stairs With perfume hair that came undone when I was twenty-one.
When I was thirty-five, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means. We'd ride in limousines. Their chauffeurs would drive when I was thirty-five.
But now the days are short, I'm in the autumn of the year and now I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs From the brim to the dregs. It poured sweet and clear. It was a very good year
