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Can't go home right now, and that's the truth |
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Julie Burchill's drinking free champagne on my roof |
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The front door's off limits, at least to the likes of me |
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See right here, right here, this is my story |
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Slept in a stranger's flat in all my clothes |
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In the morning |
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I took a bus across the city to feel safe and closer to home |
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Passed a sign on the door, and a couple more |
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Saying welcome to hard times, welcome to hard times |
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I thought of a friend whose window looks out onto nothing but fields |
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While outside mine |
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The book shop was closing down |
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It's closed now |
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And it starts to look unlikely |
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As people leave around me |
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Helen King wrote a letter to me |
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Sent May 19th, the day of my birthday |
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From a desk in a library in some far off country |
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I'm a roving artist now. |
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It's alright, it's okay |
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It said there's no magic left in crystal balls |
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I'm not sure there ever was at all |
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But listen, what will happen, the favourite question |
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Is best left for the last line of the poem |
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And it starts to look unlikely |
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As people leave around me |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
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Fashionistas, we don't need you |
