She doesn't say much she just listens to her misery. Peppermint cocoon as Billys crooning 'thirty-three'. She remarks how much she loves tears up her sleeve. Then she fades, records play her perfect elegy.
I say the strangest things when I'm drunk on your name. Spitting cold rain above this place. I'm sitting down upon this stage. I say the strangest things...don't you notice me?
Sticking up for dancers, she has Gypsy blood inside. Flowing into my harp with a velvet undefined. Picking up where I left off, you just let me slide. Then she fades, records play, she doesn't even smile.
And they will say thirty different things about her. She's a *****, she's the sweetest little flower. But I can lie with the best of the best of the liars. She won't live past this stage, she's a filthy cancer.