She

You recognise her face from the papers,
or the TV, or in your magazines.
The whole world knows her name,
she remains untouched by fame.
She's an ordinary girl behind the scenes.

She doesn't like media attention,
but she'll always stop to meet with the fans.
She writes all of her own songs
and she knows what's right from wrong.
The Beatles are her favourite band.

She is mine, She is yours
and She lives on our applause.
She has everything and nothing that she needs.
She can have her privacy
as long as we can see.
Her sculpted cheeks bring grown men to their knees.

There was outcry when she switched to electric,
but in the stands the diehard fans were going wild.
The paparazzi lifting up the pavement for a photograph, and when they failed gossip would suffice.

You were willing to forgive her indiscretions
and you grew together, left behind your teens.
And you followed without question,
'till she took a new direction
and swapped her leather pants for cutoff jeans.

She is mine, She is yours.
She demands our applause.
She's so far beyond the likes of you and me.
She's a marketing success,
designed and sculpted by the best.
Overproduced and overplayed on the MTV.

And now she's made the pilgrimage back to her roots. She makes her living on sales from '91.
And her gigs are always packed, but the bars are small and the rider never seems to last too long.

Her eyes are empty well before she draws them closed. Now she has lines upon her brow
and underneath her nose.
She fought against her fame, but they all wind up the same.

Not everybody wins a prize,
but everybody pays to play the game.

Everybody pays to play the game.