I hold an image of the ashtray girl of cigarette burns on my chest. I wrote a poem that described her world, that put our friendship to a test and late at night whilst on all fours. She used to watch me kiss the floor. What's wrong with this picture?. What's wrong with this picture?. Farewell the ashtray girl. Forbidden snowflake beware this troubled world. Watch out for earthquakes. Goodbye to open sores, to broken semaphores. You know we miss her, we miss her picture. Sometimes it's faded, disintegrated for fear of growing old.