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The day begins.
For the motel girl
An ordinary morning
A very pale sun
A Saturday in winter
She is well coiffed
She goes to work
It's really not Christmas
For the motel girl
By rote
She chews her white bread
Finish his coffee
Start to smoke
Dreaming and yet
Eight hours have come
It is going to begin
It's really not Christmas
For the motel girl
The client of the room cent
Still claiming croissants
Twenty room is gone
We must redo the bed
The living room is reserved
We expect newlyweds
Children will make noise
Men will drink all night
Her fiance
Tonight will come and get her
They will go to dinner
Maybe at the movies
Then love, tired
In front of the TV
In the embroidered sheets
It's really not Christmas
For the motel girl
Sometimes there are customers
A little crazy, a little funny
They only talk about music
And fantastic girls
She would like to have time
Talk to them for a moment
Escape to the unreal
Forget the motel girl
She would like to have time
Talk to them for a moment
Escape to the unreal
Forget the motel girl
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