Can't go home right now, and that's the truth 
Julie Burchill's drinking free champange on my roof 
The front door's off limits, at least to the likes of me 
See right here, right here, this is my story 

Slept in a stranger's flat in all my clothes 
In the morning I took a bus across the city to feel safe and closer to home 
Passed a sign on the door, and a couple more 
Saying welcome to hard times, welcome to hard times 

I thought of a friend whose window looks out onto nothing but fields 
While outside mine 
The book shop was closing down 
It's closed now 

And it starts to look unlikely 
As people leave around me 

Helen King wrote a letter to me 
Sent May 19th, the day of my birthday 
From a desk in a library in some far off country 
I'm a roving artist now. It's alright, it's okay 

It said there's no magic left in crystal balls 
I'm not sure there ever was at all 
But listen, what will happen, the favourite question 
Is best left for the last line of the poem 

And it starts to look unlikely 
As people leave around me 

Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you 
Fashionistas, we don't need you