| Saw a suit in Daddy’s wardrobe, I took a swipe
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| Lapels, size of islands, gangster white line pinstripe
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| Laughed off the street in the name of my rock ‘n' roll
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| Still a caterwauling groove will start off vacation
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| Eighties plastic Soul don’t give palpitation
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| Richie, he no like, he call out the firing squad
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| Ba ba ba. |
| .
|
| Richie look for suede, me I look for leather
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| Sartorially we groove, occasional disaster
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| For tight black canvas no make for a straight legged sixties scenester
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| Then we hit the street with poise of commando
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| Clothes, guitar, but arsenal missing one thing
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| Exotic Glasgow chick, they call her the «Carmen Veranda»
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| Ba ba ba. |
| .
|
| Me and Richie dream to be like Mr. Richard
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| Strung out secure, yes, we make like junkie
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| Hooked up on that stuff they call it the rock ‘n' roll
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| I need to consecrate, I need consecration
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| Clipped and soulful guitar riffing out the nation
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| The nation in my head the national sixties sensation
|
| Ba ba ba. |
| . |