Just a little touch of make-up; just a little touch of bull
Just a little 3-chord trick embedded in your platform soul
You can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist
You can dance the old adage with a dapper new twist.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.
Crawl inside your major triad, curl up and laugh as your agent scores another front
Page photograph.
Is it them or is it you throwing dice inside the loo awaiting someone else to pull
The chain.
Well grab the old bog-handle, hold your breath and light a candle.
Clear your throat and pray for rain to irrigate the corridors that echo in your brain
Filled with empty nothingness, empty hunger pains.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.Just a little touch of make-up; just a little touch of bull
Just a little 3-chord trick embedded in your platform soul
You can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist
You can dance the old adage with a dapper new twist.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.