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 fatal 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