It's posters falling off the walls
While your head hangs off the bed
Of dirty sheets that once were white
But now are stained instead

It's flying down a path through Hyde Park
With a bottle tucked under each arm
Or sitting on the floor in a placid corridor
Staring hard and talking rationally
And with clarity, but uncontrollably

[Chorus]
And Sophie says, "Isn't it sad that you can't discuss what dying is like with your friends?"
And Sophie says, "Won't it be annoying when they're all crying and you're just dead?"

It's waking up at five-to-five to catch a bus from town to backward town
Or slipping and sliding down a muddy hill just on your arse stuck halfway between complete hysterics and a moan

[Chorus]
And Sophie says, "I want to be married with children coming out my ears. I want a high-powered job."
And Sophie says, "I want a funny man, but only if you can be mates with him too."

"I hope the Guardian (to God he?) will take me regardless of my apathy. I want to come in and write and criticise, but I can't be arsed right now."

It's four hours in the same position
Moving your head and your foot and your arm that is aching from turning and troughing barely moving
You're either at ninety or you're practically parked

[Chorus]
And Sophie says, "I want to mourn my mother on a wrought-iron balcony in Paris."
And Sophie says, "In each hand, a glass of wine and a cigarette will accompany me. Then I will smoke for her even though she's not dead and I don't smoke. Ignoring the messages on the packets warning me of the way you'll choke. With 'Après Moi' simply pumping out the stereo, into the distance I stare. Ignoring sympathetic messages, I'll take a glug of red or white, I won't care."

"And as I puff away into the evening light, I'll flick back my blonde hair, whilst rubbing my poor grieving feet, will sit my latest beautiful Pierre."

And Sophie says, "That's for later, now I just want to spend time with my friends."
Spend time with my friends