One day you'll walk out on me, I know,  
saying you need a change of air;  
you hope I understand, you do so hate a fuss.  

I suppose you'd love to see me dancing  
somewhere out ahead of you,  
scattering azaleas in your path, perhaps?

I can just see you there, prancing along  
squashing those poor flowers underfoot  
as you fade away into the sunset.

Oh yes, you'll walk out one day, I know,  
saying you need a change of air;  
you think I'll mind? I won't, you know.