By an old microphone sits a merry girl
Telling old fashioned tales
And the smile on her face turns a sheepish grin
With her hand like a veil
In a stuttered flair
The stories they turn into lavish affairs
And we do declare
A sight that is so unbelievably rare
She's a merry go round
On a regular day she's a regular chick
With a regular job
Though the things she collects in her memory
Are irregular thoughts
With a focused stare
She's scribbling all of her notes on a page
But as the story goes
I don't think she'd have it any other way