When Will My Life Begin sing and play along

Seven a.

m., the usual morning lineup.

Start on the chores, and sweep 'til the floor's all clean.

Polish and wax, do laundry, and mop,

and shine up.

Sweep again, and by then it's,

like, seven fifteen.

And so I'll read a book,

or maybe two or three;

I'll add a few more paintings to my gallery;

I'll play guitar, and knit, and cook,

and basic'ly just wonder, "When will my life begin?"

Then after lunch, it's puzzles, and darts and baking...

papier mâché, a bit of ballet and chess...

pottery and ventriloquy, candlemaking...

then I'll stretch, maybe sketch, take a climb,

sew a dress.

And I'll reread the books if I have time to spare.

I'll paint the walls some more;

I'm sure there's room somewhere.

And then I'll brush, and brush and brush,

and brush my hair, stuck in the "When will my life begin?"

same place I've always been,

and I'll keep wond'ring and wond'ring and wond'ring and wond'ring,

"When will my life begin?"

Tomorrow night...

the lights will appear,

just like they do on my birthday each year.

What is it like out there where they glow?

Now that I'm older,

Mother might just let me go...