It's Saturday night, it feels like a Sunday in some ways.

If you had any sense you'd maybe go away for a few days.

Be that as it may, you can only say you are lonely,

You are but a young girl, working your way through the phonies.



Coffee on, milk gone, such a sad light in fading,

Yourself you touch, but not too much, you hear it's degrading.



The flowers on your stockings wilting away in the midnight,

The book you are reading is one man's opinion of moonlight.

Your skin is so white, you'd like maybe to go to bed soon,

Just closing your eyes, if you're to rise up before noon.



High heels, car wheels, all the losers are grooving.

Your dream, strange seem images are moving.



Your friends they are making a pop star or two every evening.

You know that scene backwards, they can't see the patterns they're weaving.

Your friends they're all models but you soon got over that one.

You sit in your one room, a little brought down in London.



Coffee on, milk gone, such a sad light in fading,

Yourself you touch, but not too much, you've heard it's degrading.



It's Saturday night, it feels like a Sunday in some ways.

If you had any sense you'd maybe go away for a few days.

Be that as it may, you can only say you are lonely,

You are but a young girl and you're working your way through the phonies