An orange sleeveless shirt and a Celtic cross necklace
Just a camouflage
Oversized trousers trying hard to look reckless
Another mirage
An old brown leather belt and a fancy pair of socks
A pack of cigarettes
Tattoos from top to toe, oh what an orthodox
As silly as it gets
Here comes the rock star, well that's what he calls himself
Sits down at the bar
Orders a whisky dry, though he fucking hates the taste
Never wonders why
He speaks loud enough, makes sure everyone can hear
He's ready to bluff
This year will be mad, my sales are through the roof
Well I wished they had
Shut it
Shut it
Nothing is right
Everything is a lie
Nothing to clarify
Shut it
Everything's fake
Make no mistake
He's as sly as a snake yeah
Shut it
Let's get this straight
He's forty
Forty years late
Shut it
Let's get this straight
He's forty
Forty years late yeah
Now come his band mates, a bunch of ugly dorks
Dull as prison gates
They are all buzzing, their manager's around
The drummer's cousin
A pair of sunglasses and a cheap white suit, he's here to
Impress the masses
He's bragging about, says he's signed juicy contracts
In Miami
The tension builds up, our wannabe rock star has
Just picked up a fight
Usually polite, alcohol gets to his brains
Spits at someone's face
Don't care about your life, doesn't matter who you are
I'm a superstar
He will end the night with his face down the gutter
What a pleasant sight
Shut it
Shut it
Nothing is right
Everything is a lie
Nothing to clarify
Shut it
Everything's fake
Make no mistake
He's as sly as a snake yeah
Shut it
Let's get this straight
He's forty
Forty years late
Shut it
Let's get this straight
He's forty
Forty years late yeah