Intro: F#m  Bm  A  F#m  (4X) 
  
F#m            Bm        F#m     Bm 
On her biggest wall, she hung Warhol 
    F#m        Bm        F#m     Bm 
And wishes she had never used 
     F#m     Bm             F#m     Bm 
The last magazine, in which she was seen 
    F#m         Bm    F#m     Bm 
Was sold to the self abused 
 
A           E            Bm    F#m    
This lovely one holds an empty gun 
    D                       Bm 
And swears it was done on a dare 
A        E             Bm    F#m 
Her only fear, is that her career, 
         D                Bm 
Has been damaged beyond repair 
B                  Intro  
Down on Washington Square 
 
The summer breeze, blows the shades off the window 
As she stares out on to Seventh Avenue 
She sees a rastafarian, out on the corner, 
Trying to sell his point of view 
 
Without affection, she tells her connection, 
"I need a fix this just isn't fair" 
And he takes a walk, around the block,  
And disappears into thin air 
Into Washington Square 
 
E                  F#m    E 
   I sit here all alone 
F# 
Wondering when they will come 
 
She reads every page of Vogue Magazine, 
Studies every single look 
She came on the scene, behind amphetamines, 
And left before they finished the book 
 
Mirror, mirror, on the wall 
Does this mean that you no longer care? 
You used to tell her that she was the one 
But now that you're no longer here 
She stands and stares out on Washington Square 
 
E                              F# 
Doesn't anybody understand she needs someone, 
E                                     F#   
Blown away in the loft, late at night into oblivion, 
 
She found her bag of troubles and tricks 
Down on Commerce Avenue 
All the muggers, all the whores and the thieves  
Told her, all of her dreams would come true 
 
"Jeanine" they said, "she set her old man free, 
Down at the Chelsea, just before he disappeared" 
She takes a walk, around the block 
And picks up a few volunteers 
And takes a stand out on Washington Square. 
 
I saw an art show I saw Jaco Pastorius  
Walking across the street 
He was mumbling mumbling something about 
Someone that he had to meet 
 
It was that lovely one with an empty gun 
Who did it on a dare 
Came on the scene wearing tennis shoes and jeans 
And vanished into thin air she disappeared 
 
It's the new sound of thunder 
It's not purple rain 
It's the new southern California 
And New York City again.  
 
 
 
by: José Duarte 
jtduarte1@netcabo.pt