| Broughton-Mason-Thomas | |
| No... No golden mile | |
| Or flashing cameras, the ritzy style | |
| Just ... just scrap book smiles. | |
| There's no need to hurry, when all she has is time | |
| She, she, she, she's going home | |
| Between the pagodas and always alone | |
| Down on Sunset Boulevard, you'd sell your soul before your car is paid for. | |
| The only laughing sound you hear, from blind men cause they hold no fear of darkness | |
| With every flashing theatre light, a startled welcome through the night is glowing. | |
| But every mother's son is dead, they choked upon the daily bread they prayed for. | |
| Friends... friends pass on by. | |
| She gives a performance, they call it a lie. | |
| Only ... only late at night. | |
| She still sees the traces of the city lights | |
| Sun Sun ... Sun ... Sunset Boulevard, the devil can take her, she's been there before | |
| By the broken ballistrade, an idol from another age is swaying | |
| Softly singing Gershwin songs, but every other note is wrong and straining. | |
| And once again her glass is dry, the bedroom mirror cannot lie forever | |
| For down on Sunset Boulevard they've lived too long and laughed too hard to love her | |
| The telephone is ringing ... but there's no reply | |
| A gramophone is singing ... sweetly out of time. | |
| And in the hall, screaming for the final scene ... | |
| Passing through their eyes, peering for the view. | |
| With her name in lights, The lady's news. | |
| And in her sleep they call her... loving every smile | |
| Lining every street to see her . . . starry eyed and wild. | |
| Again she wakes, screaming for the final scene. | |
| Passing through their eyes, peering for the view. | |
| With her name in lights, The lady's news. |
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