On her biggest wall, she hung Warhol
And wishes she had never used
The last magazine, in which she was seen
Was sold to the self abused
This lovely one holds an empty gun
And swears it was done on a dare
Her only fear, is that her career,
Has been damaged beyond repair
Down on Washington Square
The summer breeze, blows the shades off the window
I sit here all alone
Wondering when they will come
She reads every page of Vogue Magazine,
Doesn't anybody understand she needs someone,
Blown away in the loft, late at night into oblivion,
She found her bag of troubles and tricks