Friday's gym and sunday's grim He sees an analyst on tuesday morning She's no happier than him She only likes to hear her own voice talking Oh well have you seen her face Soaked in hype and foolishness They say when you upped and left Your parents didn't even notice 50 years to go ooh la la And it seems to me that you're all dead already
Wifey works on style mags Thin girls with bruises in her pictures Halfway down she lost herself I think they call it butterfingers Oh well it's a cosy place Occasional domestic flare ups Oh well have you seen her face She actually believes in haircuts
You sold your old punk records Read the book instead You lost your sense of humour But you kept the queen is dead You don't look yourself You dress like your mother
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