More songs by Lana Del Rey
Description
Composer Lyricist, Vocalist, Producer: Lana Del Rey
Producer, Composer Lyricist: Jack Antonoff
Engineer, Mixing Engineer: Laura Sisk
Mastering Engineer: Chris Gehringer
Lyrics and translation
Original
I was reading some Aarons and I got to thinking that I thought maybe I'd get less stressed if I was tested less like all of these debutantes smiling for miles in pink dresses and high heels and white yachts.
But I'm not.
Baby, I'm not.
No, I'm not.
That I'm not.
I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown twenty-four seven,
Sylvia Plath.
Writing in blood on my walls 'cause the ink in my pen don't work in my notepad.
Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not.
But at best I can say I'm not sad.
'Cause hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
I had fifteen-year dances, church basement romances.
Yeah, I've got. . .
Spilling my guts with the Bowery Bums is the only love I've ever known.
Except for the stage which I also call home when I'm not serving up God in a burnt coffee pot for the triad.
Hello, it's the most famous woman you know on the iPad.
Calling from beyond the grave, I just wanna say, "Hi,
Dad.
" I've been tearing up town in my fucking white gown like a goddamn sociopath.
Shaking my ass is the only thing that's got this black narcissist off my back.
She couldn't care less and I never cared more, so there's no more to say about that.
Except hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman with my past.
There's a new revolution, a loud evolution that I saw.
Born of confusion and quiet collusion, of which mostly I've known.
A modern-day woman with a weak constitution 'cause I've got monsters still under my bed that I could never fight off.
A gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my nights off.
I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown twenty-four seven, Sylvia Plath.
Writing in blood on your walls 'cause the ink in my pen don't look good in my pad. They write that I'm happy, they know that I'm not.
But at best you can see I'm not sad.
But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
But I have it. Yeah, I have it.
Yeah, I have it.
I have.
English translation
I was reading some Aarons and I got to thinking that I thought maybe I'd get less stressed if I was tested less like all of these debutantes smiling for miles in pink dresses and high heels and white yachts.
But I'm not.
Baby, I'm not.
No, I'm not.
That I'm not.
I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown twenty-four seven,
Sylvia Plath.
Writing in blood on my walls 'cause the ink in my pen don't work in my notepad.
Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not.
But at best I can say I'm not sad.
'Cause hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
I had fifteen-year dances, church basement romances.
Yeah, I've got. . .
Spilling my guts with the Bowery Bums is the only love I've ever known.
Except for the stage which I also call home when I'm not serving up God in a burnt coffee pot for the triad.
Hello, it's the most famous woman you know on the iPad.
Calling from beyond the grave, I just wanna say, "Hi,
Dad.
" I've been tearing up town in my fucking white gown like a goddamn sociopath.
Shaking my ass is the only thing that's got this black narcissist off my back.
She couldn't care less and I never cared more, so there's no more to say about that.
Except hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman with my past.
There's a new revolution, a loud evolution that I saw.
Born of confusion and quiet collusion, of which mostly I've known.
A modern-day woman with a weak constitution 'cause I've got monsters still under my bed that I could never fight off.
A gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my nights off.
I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown twenty-four seven, Sylvia Plath.
Writing in blood on your walls 'cause the ink in my pen don't look good in my pad. They write that I'm happy, they know that I'm not.
But at best you can see I'm not sad.
But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
But I have it. Yeah, I have it.
Yeah, I have it.
I have.