| All of the stage names evaporate
|
| And it’s just a blood-flushed and heart-rushing race
|
| Either to kick off too soon or stick around too late
|
| To be far too dear or too cut-rate
|
| Hold my hand again like at the lake
|
| Hold that mirror, babe, up to my face
|
| Hear the whippoorwill? |
| Am I breathing still?
|
| A Hollywood Babylon bike-a-thon for break-dancers all broken down in their beds
|
| Now intravenously fed from a bag hanging over their heads
|
| Can I put you down for some miles? |
| What do you say?
|
| Cause don’t you know it’s going to be a long, long way
|
| But if you’ve got the cash, I’m ready to bust my ass
|
| So take this thin, broken-down circus clown reject
|
| And give her the name of a queen
|
| Don’t I know her from the mezzanine?
|
| Well, she didn’t look like no princess to me
|
| But with the proper words bestowed
|
| And with her morning shoot
|
| And her evening clothes
|
| Don’t call her a prostitute
|
| She isn’t one of those
|
| Just call her a proper little statue come unfroze |