There's a very attractive and bright wooden sign
on a painted blue door, simply marked number nine;
The rounded black letters that firmly define:
Beyond this clear border lives Jen Hall hyphen Klein.

And Jenny plays rock
on an electric guitar;
you can hear her at night
all the way to the Corner Street bar.

And she promised us every time with her voice
and with chords ringing high, standing tall,
That she won't be about if she had any choice -
she's just waiting around for the incoming call.

And yet every start of a shining bright morning,
when I sullenly slide down a herd of worn stairs,
I watch her step out of her colorful hallway -
Jenny's still there; walks to work, goes nowhere.

And Jenny plays rock
on an electric guitar;
you can hear her at night
all the way to the Corner Street bar.

And maybe one day, one odd morning to come,
at exactly a quarter past eight,
I'll pass by her painted blue door, stowaway,
and sadly will see that Jennifer's late.

And maybe one night, perhaps it's tonight,
when I sit with a drink at the bar,
I will hear all the neighbours whisper and sigh:
"Listen, you hear? There's no sound of guitar"

Cause Jenny played rock
on an electric guitar;
we could hear her at night
all the way to the Corner Street bar.

Cause she used to play rock,
Jenny Hall hyphen Klein,
now the phone just keeps ringing
behind door number nine.