| They called him Alexander
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| With the best band in the land
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| He’d topped the bill in Paris
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| But in Venice it was banned
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| A pile of dusty gold discs
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| Were among his claims to fame
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| There was no-one over sixty
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| Who didn’t know his name
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| Alexander you were great
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| The man the critics loved to hate
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| You could have been as big as the Beatles or the Stones
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| Alexander you became
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| The lonely housewife’s favourite name
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| You could have been the greatest of them all
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| The gig was held in honour
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| Of his golden jubilee
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| He did not need the money
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| So he said he’d play for free
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| He got the band together
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| Who’d been with him through the years
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| They rehearsed the Alexander songs
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| And shed nostalgic tears
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| The crowd rose to their feet
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| When Alexander hit the stage
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| His face had been rebuilt
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| So that you could not tell his age
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| He played all of the old songs
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| And the crowd sang every word
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| He danced like Margot Fonteyn
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| And whistled like a bird
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| He came on for the encore
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| But collapsed against the stand
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| The crowd was hushed, the doctor came
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| There was panic in the band
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| He diagnosed a broken heart
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| The critics had been fed
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| Their reviews became
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| Obituary notices instead |