Her hands were colder than an unfired.38 She kept a room somewhere in Notting Hill Gate The last one down the 2nd floor hall There's a print by Brenda York on the kitchen wall And her neighbours rarely see her But then they never really see themselves She’s quite polite, never causes a stir She's got lots of Cohen vinyl stacked on some shelves
I remember enquiring about where she came from'til she posed dressed only In her shiny thigh highs "Don’t be asking me questions, and I’ll tell you no lies"
The blinds are always down, or at least the curtains are drawn Her closet’s full of clothes, some of which she’s never worn There's a skirt that was hand-stitched in Cape Town And a Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown Her head is always turned, when pictures are taken And her hair style never stays the same Her roots she has so long forsaken And it’s always fashion that takes the blame
Most times my curiosity would be met with the same reply“If you don't ask Me questions, why would I tell you lies”
There’s a sundial in her lounge on a wedding kist That’s right at least twice a day She wears a watch on the bottom of her left wrist Like a night nurse waiting for a chance to play She has a tattoo in a place that mostly only lovers see There’s a burn mark on her breast she got at Sicily It's shaped like a tumbler in free fall After a while you don’t notice it at all
I was trying to find out her favourite song, 'til she said “all musos must Die, don’t be asking me questions and I'll tell you no lies