It's Saturday night, it feels like a Sunday in some ways.
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If I had any sense I'd maybe go away for a few days.
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Be that as it may, I can only say I am lonely,
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I am but a young girl, working my way through the phonies.
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Coffee on, milk gone, a sad light by fading,
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Myself I touch, but not too much, I hear it's degrading.
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The flowers on my stockings are wilting away in the midnight.
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The book I am reading is one man's opinion of moonlight.
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My skin is so white, I'd like maybe to go to bed soon,
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Closing my eyes, if I'm to rise up before noon.
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High heels, car wheels, the losers are grooving.
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My dream, strange seem images are moving.
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My friends, they are making a pop star or two every evening.
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I know that scene backwards, they can't see the patterns they're weaving.
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My friends they are models but I soon got over that one.
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I sit in my one room, a little brought-down in London.
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Coffee on, milk gone, a sad light by fading,
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Myself I touch, but not too much, I hear it's degrading.
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La la la la la, la la la la la la la la la.
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La la la la la, la la la la la la la la la.
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La la la la, la la la la la ...
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Young Girl Blues
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| Marianne Faithfull |
