Pretty women, fascinating, sipping coffee, dancing. Pretty women are a wonder. Pretty women sitting in the window, standing on the stair. Something in them cheers the air. Pretty women, silhouetted, stay within you, glancing, stay forever, breathing lightly. Pretty women, pretty women, blowing out their candles or combing out their hair. Even when they leave, they still are there. They're there. Sipping coffee, here's to the ladies who lunch. Everybody laugh. Lounging in their caftans and planning a brunch on their own behalf. Off to the gym, then to a fitting, claiming they're fat and looking grim because they've been sitting, choosing a hat. I'll drink to that. Here's to the girls who just watch. Aren't they the best? When they get depressed, it's a bottle of scotch plus a little jest. Another chance to disapprove. Another brilliant zinger. Another reason not to move. Another vodka stinger. I'll drink to that. And here's to the girls who play wife. Aren't they too much? Keeping house but clutching a copy of life just to keep in touch. The ones who follow the rules and meet themselves at the school. Too busy to know that they're fools. Aren't they a gem? Let's all drink to them. Let's all drink to pretty women. Fascinating how they make a man sing. Here's to the girls on the go. Everybody tries. Look into their eyes and you'll see what they know. Everybody dies. A toast to that invincible bunch. The dinosaur surviving the crunch. Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch. Everybody rise. Everybody rise. Pretty women at their mirrors in their gardens on committees telephoning, window shopping, table hopping. Pretty women giving parties never stopping. Gossip swabbing, capsule popping. Everybody rise. Everybody rise. Everybody rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Pretty women rise.