Tekster: Elton John. 21 At 33. White Lady White Powder.

:
Dust settles on a thin cloud
Sends a fog drifting to a worn out crowd
I've had my face in a mirror for twenty four hours
Staring at a line of white powder

High-priced madness pays the tab
I've scraped too much of nothing from your plastic bag
I'm a catatonic son of a bitch who's had
A touch too much of white powder

And she's a habit I can't handle
For a reason I can't say
I'm in love with a wild white lady
She's as sweet as the stories say
White powder white lady
You're one and the same
Come on down to my house won't you
And hit this boy again

Shock waves to a tired brain
Sends that hungry lady to my door again
She's my shelter from the storm when I feel the rain
Entertaining white powder

I feel I'm dry-docked and tongue-tied
Heaven sends a stretcher for the kids to ride
I might just escape while the others might die
Riding on a high of white powder