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