Pacific Telephone
Ulysse Cottin, Armand Penicaut
She get’s her high hopes down
The Moon outsmarts the Sun
And nothing really matters
Since the night I met her
In a dusty bar uptown
I like the way she sounded
Easy with the sailors
Flirting after hours
Lucille’s got the face of an earthquake
Shaking, shaking
She takes off her dress in the misty
Morning, morning
I paid the man and drove
To some place down the coast
The landscape in the distance
Unfolded like a river
On the beach the sand was cold
My hands around her throat
Tried my best to show her
How dreams get turned to silver
Lucille’s got the face of an earthquake
Shaking, shaking
She takes off her dress in the misty
Morning, morning