| Sketchead is coming to your party
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| He’s walking up your drive and he’s swinging all his keys around
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| Sketchead, he’s seen you with your top off
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| He already knows your boyfriend, retain your introductions
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| Sketchead, that cumbersome protagonist
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| The pips in your quince, the eye behind the spy hole
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| The itch you can’t itch in your ear
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| And the knock that shattered your packet of peppermints
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| Sketchead, there’s poison in his spit
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| He’ll compliment your tits and leave you to your wits
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| Sketchead, convincingly insisting the tyres were bald
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| When you gave him the car
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| Sketchead, still coming to your party
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| Still walking up your drive and still swinging all his keys around
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| On his finger as a pendulum to unnerve
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| And then there’s you, you’ve changed
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| I approached you like you were the same
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| But soon it was apparent a new name was required
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| New lips went and fired accomplishments at me
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| While I’m captivated by your magazine skin
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| The tint on your lenses obscures to begin
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| And you know full well
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| That anyone who says that they don’t prefer the sequel
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| Will still be swinging on themselves tonight |