This girl is made of lipstick. Powder and paint. Sees the pictures of herself. Every magazine on every shelf. This girl is maid of Bond Street. Hailing cabs lunches with executives. Gleaming teeth sip aperitifs. This girl is a lonely girl. Takes the train from Paddington to Oxford Circus. Buys the Daily News. But passengers don't smile at her don't smile at her. This girl is made of loneliness. A broken heart. For the boy that she once knew. Doesn't want to know her any more. And this girl is a lonely girl. Every thing she wants is hers. But she can't make it with the boy she really wants to be with. All the time to love all the time. This boy is made of envy. Jealousy. He doesn't have a limousine. Really wants to be a star himself. This girl her world is made of flashlights and films. Her cares are scraps on the cutting room floor. And maids of Bond Street drive round in chauffered cars. Maids of Bond Street picture clothes eyes of stars. Maids of Bond Street shouldn't have worldly cares. Maids of Bond Street shouldn't have love affairs.