She would blame her mother who she used to hate so well,
Her mother blamed her father ‘cause he put her on a spell,
But even with the misery not even you could tell,
The years would go so quickly and there’s nothing more to sell.
A place where you can sell your dreams in little plastic bags,
Her dreams of silver screen and silver slippers turned to mags,
This fairy tale is where she goes from rags to other rags,
And the wolf is getting fatter and the princess is a hag.
Her eyes had a sparkle but in his eyes was a glint,
He could see the money shot before she even blinked,
Smiling for the camera’s not as hard as you would think,
But her eyes are glazing over and she needs another drink.
The numbers tell a story ‘cause she used to be a ten,
The number of the label and the number of the men,
Two and three and four and more and give up saying when,
Seventeen a number she remembers now and then.
She used to be an artist and her body was her page,
An actress and an acrobat, 8mm stage,
Gave everything she had up for the man who paid her wage,
Now the envelope is slimmer now she starts to show her age.
The woman on the screen became the woman in my mind,
The woman in my mind became the one I never find,
And every day I say I’m going to leave it all behind,
But nothing is the same when you read between the lines.
Read in between the lines on my face –
There’s nothing even left there, not even a trace,
And nothing is tugging at the end of the line.