"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
So you submit to that mild form of boxing called love.
Then, happy he's earned his keep
He picks your pocket, drives off in your blonde Lincoln
And you pass out.
There's only one definite thing about movies
When you have a tight shooting schedule:
They'll keep you up.
They'll make you cry they'll beat you
They'll leave you, but they won't leave you alone
And you'll get to the studio with a headache
Looking like who did it and ran.
You ask them to light the jewelry,
The props, anything but your face.
"We'll need more work today"
And tomorrow and the next day.
Then the reviews come out:
"No more just a beauty, this performance was dazzling
Mature, and with an unexpected depth of character."
I wasn't being paid for depth
Or character
Or maturity
I was supposed to be beautiful.
I want a drink. I don't know what happened.
I was young then I was old. I was paid for
Then I paid. Everything seems like it happened
Yesterday or so long ago it happened to someone else.
I've been called a bad' woman. I don't know.
I was in a bad business that does bad things to people
He was young to die. But so was I.
He died in a movie star's white bedroom.
That's better than the gutter.
And I matured, as they say.
I think it was him or me.
I may have been part of a tragedy
But I'm not sure if the tragedy
Was his death or my life
Or just the story around us
Or if I'm capable of...
What's the use. It was so long ago.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
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