| Picture this 2.30 on the hottest night in June
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| He awakes for no reason and checks his watch by the moon
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| And his mouth feels as dry as his eyes as he struggles to rise
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| And stops to contemplate his wife’s thighs as he does up his flies
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| He finds his slippers where he left them under the chair behind the 2 cups and
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| an old copy of marie claire
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| He switches the on the coffee machine that of course works like a dream
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| Catches sight of his reflection in the silver surface sheen
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| And It’s a face he knows well although it should look less abused
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| With all these moisturisers and the skin products he’s used
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| As he moves through the kitchen, his homage to brushed steel
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| Across the new pine flooring that’s plastic but looks real
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| Past the plasma with the widescreen and the cinema surround sound
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| And he stops on his favourite spot by the window and looks down
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| On the orange lit street at the edge of the private car park
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| Where his Audi TT is waiting safely in the dark
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| Keeping it all inside of you
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| Something will have to give
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| And if you could you’ll take it back
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| But you lose your way in the way you live
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| Now he can hear wind chimes tinkling out on the balcony
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| And his phone beeping out a text message in the same key
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| He checks it and it’s Jill who used to be his secretary
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| Before they started an affair and things began to get really scary
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| Now his wife Mary is getting weary of his lies
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| Like she’s read the whole sordid story in his eyes
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| It doesn’t help that Jill’s now saying that she’s 2 weeks late
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| His mental state is really starting to deteriorate
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| He never knew how he got so out of his depth
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| Or why he’s broken more than all these promises kept
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| And it’s been ages since he slept
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| Properly, his sleeps now broken by these dreams of extra-marital activity
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| Trying to recapture the rapture that he used to get from his material
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| possessions
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| And endless retail therapy sessions
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| Shoulda listened to what his dad said before he died
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| The best things in life are the ones you can’t buy son
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| Keeping it all inside of you
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| Something will have to give
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| Wish you could buy a ticket back
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| But you lose your way in the way you live
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| He used to feel so safe up here in his shrine to Ikea
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| Away from the shouts and the louts and the girls with the over-painted pouts
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| And the queers and the dykes and the kids in their box-fresh Nikes
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| Delivering rocks to the house across the street on rusty mountain bikes
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| Aah aah
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| Aah aah aaahh
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| He used to feel so safe up here in his shrine to Ikea
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| Away from the shouts and the louts and the girls with the over-painted pouts
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| And the queers and the dykes and the kids in their box-fresh Nikes
|
| Delivering rocks to the house across the street on rusty mountain bikes
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| Aah aah
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| Aah aah aaah |