I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face

Damn, damn, damn, damn
I've grown accustomed to her face

She almost makes the day begin
I've grown accustomed to the tune
She whistles night and noon
Her smiles, her frowns
Her ups, her downs

Are second nature to me now
Like breathing out and breathing in
I was serenely independent and content before we met
Surely I could always be that way again

And yet
I've grown accustomed to her looks
Accustomed to her voice
Accustomed to her face

"Marry Freddy" what an infantile idea, what a heartless
Wicked, brainless thing to do, but she'll regret it
She'll regret it, it's doomed before they even take the vow

I can see her now, Mrs. Freddy Eynsford Hill
In a wretched little flat above a store
I could see her now, not a penny in the till
And a bill collector beating at the door

She'll try to teach the things I taught her
And end up selling flowers instead
Begging for her bread and water
While her husband has his breakfast in bed

In a year or so when she's prematurely gray
And the blossom in her cheek has turned to chalk
She'll come home, and lo, he'll have upped and run away
With a social climbing heiress from New York

Poor Eliza, how simply frightful
How humiliating, how delightful
How poignant it'll be on that inevitable night
When she hammers on my door in tears and rags

Miserable and lonely, repentant and contrite
Will I take her in or hurl her to the wolves?
Give her kindness or the treatment she deserves?
Will I take her back or throw the baggage out?

I'm a most forgiving man
The sort who never could, ever would
Take a position and staunchly never budge
Just a most forgiving man

But, I shall never take her back
If she were crawling on her knees
Let her promise to atone
Let her shiver, let her moan
I'll slam the door and let the hell cat freeze

"Marry Freddy", ha

But I'm so used to hear her say
"Good morning" every day
Her joys, her woes
Her highs, her lows

Are second nature to me now
Like breathing out and breathing in
I'm very grateful she's a woman
And so easy to forget
Rather like a habit
One can always break

And yet I've grown accustomed to the trace
Of something in the air
Accustomed to her face

Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?