| The first time we flew it
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| It was cheap and cramped
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| The vodka running out half-way across the atlantic
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| Even the steward screamed and joined in it
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| We didn’t think we were going to make it
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| Now we’re stretched out in wide, furry seats
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| Flicking through menus
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| A walk to the bar and there’s as much screw-top champagne as we can drink
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| We’re so easy
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| Taking turns having our photos taken
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| Sitting in front of smoked windows
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| Decanters of cheap whiskey in our hands
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| Drive into Manhattan on a date with a starlet who’s just talent
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| That’s what people pay the money to see?
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| Who are we to argue…
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| Five hours now it’s been going on
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| And still we’re watching all of it
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| Can you really believe all this?
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| Can he really lie in bed at night and marvel at his own genius?
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| When do you lose the ability to step back
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| And get a sense of your own ridiculousness?
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| They’re only songs
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| Midnight, and it’s all over
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| Now it can really make us laugh
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| We’re standing on our heads drinking sours of crystel schnapps
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| Now we’re unable to step back or forward
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| Swallowing a swallow
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| Tasting it again, it’s not so unpleasant
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| Perhaps it’s an acquired taste
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| The first time, it makes you sick
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| Then, little by little, it becomes delicious
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| Showbiz people
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| Always there to be interested in what you have to say
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| We are artists; |
| we are sensitive and important
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| We nod our heads earnestly
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| Already half-way down the champagne
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| On our way to leaving the place dry
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| A $ 2,000 bar bill
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| Showbiz picks up the tab
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| And we’re on our way laughing
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| Laughing at what?
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| Los Angeles, eight days in
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| And our sense of irony’s running pretty thin
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| All the friends we’ve made
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| It’s 2 am, it’s closing time at the Dresden
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| Marty and Layton play one last sleepy «Strangers In The Night»
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| And the last of the martinis dribble down our chins
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| We’re sitting, chasing the conservation around the table
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| Jesus, how long have I been in this state?
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| The limousine’s still waiting outside
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| Anything you want to do?
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| Anywhere you want to go?
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| We’re on our way to the airport and a plane to Vegas
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| So many nights lying in bed shaking
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| Dreaming of pushing my daughter around the supermarket
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| The joy of seeing all those colours and shapes reflect in her wide eyes
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| My head leaning on the window
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| And we’re driving through the empty L.A. streets
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| And everything seems silent and beautiful
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| A guy’s face hits the floor
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| Police revolvers glistening in the streetlight
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| Onto melrose and lurching through a sea of halloweeen transvestites
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| The flight’s cancelled, but it doesn’t matter
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| We turn this corner to a way that takes us wherever
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| Up to sunset
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| We creep up the drive to the Shattuck
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| The suite Belushi died in
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| Or the one Morrison hung out the window
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| Oh, I’ll go for Jim’s
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| I would fancy a hotel window-hanging, myself, tonight, man
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| Straight over to the mini-bar
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| Open the champagne — one sip and it’s left to wake up to
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| Anyone hungry?
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| A team of uniformed waiters lay out an elaborate table for all us to ignore
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| Oh, the irony
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| How we’re used to living
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| Back in London on a cold friday night
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| Do you want another drink?
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| Well, I could try
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| Perhaps we could make it to the atlantic
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| 600 yards, 20 minutes later
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| We’re pushing through the waiting crowd, all fish eyes
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| An exclusive door policy
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| Exclusively for arseholes
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| And tonight? |
| well, a nod of our heads, and we’re inside
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| Falling down the red, velvety stairs
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| Limbs flaying, hands searching for something to steady
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| Pick ourselves up, nothing broken
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| Just aches in the morning
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| No one seems to notice
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| I find a table, champagne arrives
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| I’ve been so drunk, I sit and look at you
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| We try and talk for the first time in a long time
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| Drunken confession
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| You shiver, it made you feel sick
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| We use the rent money to pay the bill
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| Bumping shoulders, we stumble out into Soho
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| Slipping over the sleeping bags
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| Shouting for taxis |