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