My face is finished, my body's gone. 
And I can't help but think standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful. 
With their questioning eyes. 
That I must above all things love myself. 

I saw a girl in the crowd, 
I ran over I shouted out, 
I asked if I could take her out, 
But she said that she didn't want to. 

I changed the sheets on my bed,  [bad word] the hairs across my head, 
I sucked in my gut and still she said 
That she just didn't want to. 

I read her Eliot, read her Yeats, 
I tried my best to stay up late, 
I fixed the hinges on her gate, 
But still she just never wanted to. 

I bought her a dozen snow-white doves, 
I did her dishes [bad word] gloves, 
I called her Honeybee, I called her Love, 
But she just still didn't want to. She just never wants to. 

I sent her every type of flower, 
I played her guitar by the hour, 
I patted her revolting little chihuahua, 
But still she just didn't want to. 

I wrote a song with a hundred lines, 
I picked a bunch of dandelions, 
I walked her through the trembling pines, 
But she just even then didn't want to. She just never wants to. 

I thought I'd try another tack, 
I drank a litre of cognac, 
I threw her down upon her back, 
But she just laughed and said that she just didn't want to. 

I thought I'd have another go, 
I called her mah little O, 
I felt like Marcel Marceau 
must feel when she said that she just never wanted to. She just didn't want to. 

I got the no [bad word] blues.