She isn't stamped out
Why did Barrymore think
His dream-songs and chicken
Could solve any damn thing?

Impressions, confessions
As real as the mist
Cool at your neck
Like an iron fist

He's not a dead-head
But he likes a good dream
Keeps them on their toes
Blowing smoke rings

3 a.m., he's up painting rocks
4 a.m., another cup o' Joe
He speaks in tongues
As her eyes swallow

Not stamped out, not stamped out
When will they ever learn?
Barrymore, eat your heart out
Her solitary fire still burns