The singer with curls and the body to die for

Survives on a diet of Harvey wall-bangers.

She slurs in the microphone, swears at her fans,

Mishandles her phrases, drops boulders not clangers.

At the end of the set she seems angry, upset.

Her mascara is starting to run.

As she turns to the crowd in a voice that's too loud

She says, “Why did you bother to come? Bother to come.”

And her fans watch her sadly then escape what they see in that room.  

There's no hint of the maestro she was as she plays the buffoon,

As she loses her words and she sings out of time and she sings out of tune,

Sings out of tune.

Once at home in her flat she admits the sad fact,

That the drugs and the drink, even red wine and whiskey,

Have left her a hint of the person she was,

And no longer serve as a means to be frisky,

And any good friends have deserted the ship, and only the rats now remain.

When she lays down her head, she's alone in her bed,

And all she can feel is the pain, feel is the pain.

Numerous fans keep a vigil outside her front door

While mothers fetch daughters home: What are they all waiting for?

She can't sing any more and she's numb to the core and she'll soon need to score.

Yes she'll soon need to score.

A few long days after, the girl with the voice

Has slipped away quietly to join all those girls and boys

Tortured by memories, flailed by the thoughts

They never could banish despite what they bought

To stick into their veins or to pour down their throats,

Just to die without leaving a note, with a press photo clamped in the hand

And a vomit stained coat and a message from fans.

Now, look, you will see all those vultures return.

They have gathered around in the hope there is money to earn,

For her friends were just dealers of death

And she never did learn to question their cause for concern.

© Mark Porter 2012