| The past prima donna
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| in buttons and bells
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| Was speaking what’s left of her mind
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| as the audience rebels
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| The lights they were dimmed
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| the music by Strauss
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| She entered on rollerskates
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| fetchingly tousled
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| She dnced like an ambulance
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| Talked like a cartoon mouse
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| She took off her clothes
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| and it brought down the house
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Why don’t you come when I call?
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Can you still hear me at all?
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| The male counterpart: stupid, brutal and rich
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| Lies under the arm of the world like an itch
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Because he is such an attractive young lout
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| Putting words in his mouth and then trying them out
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| It doesn’t much matter what they are about
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| So long as he has something nasty to spout
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| Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Boys will be boys
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| Blood must be spilt
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| And nothing like showbusiness was ever built
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| For letting your critical function wilt
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| Under the weight of your liberal guilt
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| Do you know what I’m saying? |
| He’s the genuine voice of his unlovely state
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| And the first to complain
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| When they start to investigate
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| Under his criminal past and his polythene skin
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| He’s blowing his lines with his cheeks sucked in Do you know what I’m saying?
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| Hush now… he has something special to say…
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| «Can you put your hands together this way?»
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| Do you know what I’m saying |