Mitsubishi Colt

He looks at me intensely

Contact lens green with artifical envy

Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare

Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair

And theorises thus

You know what I reckon?

Pause for effect

Adjusts his tackle as if it's semi-erect

I feel I'd better give him what I know he expects

What do you reckon?

A hand on the shoulder

An avuncular wink

Sips his lemon drink

Spits out the pips

Hands on hips

Licks his lips

Like a wolf near a flock

Yet again adjusting his fantasy cock

He delivers his philosophy

I reckon it don't matter

It don't mean squat

What you earn or what you got

Or the style of your hair

Or what you wear

It matters not

Like what do you care

That I live on a hill with views of the beach

That my chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each

That I've already reached my first million and I'm only 26

You're as thick as two bricks

If you think you can fix

What is broke in your life with money

And the funny thing is

And I shit you not

That I'd give it all up like that

He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit

And with a click of his fingers

Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid

And grinning ridiculously

Orders a G and T

And a beer, for me

And before I can escape

He's back saying

Cos mate, the thing is

All of that crap

It's all superficial

It's all just a front

Anyone can be a rich cunt

But the thing we all want

Can't be bought with dosh

You know what I mean boss?

Cos you don't give a toss

That when I want to get slim

I've got my own private gym

And a personal trainer called Danielle or Darlene

She's got tits

Like those chicks

In Ralph magazine

And it's not like you care

That I own the controlling share

Of an overseas company

That builds accounting software

It matters not one bit

I mean who gives a shit

That I earn six hundred grand

And drive a brand new land rover

You know I would hand it all over like that

He pauses for a beat

Long enough for me to retreat to a seat

And sit, elbow on the bar

And contemplate this guru

With his white teeth and big car

And ponder silently my belief

That genius comes in many a form

And that this postulating, peroxided porn-star prick ain't one of them

My specultaion cut short

As he reforms

Like Terminator II

And before I have time to abort

He descends upon me and snorts

I guess what I'm trying to say

In my own little way

Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that

Well I reckon they're great

I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums

And don't get out of bed til the pizza man comes

And smoke cones

And take crack

And wack-off all day

But I don't care what they say

And I don't listen to people

Who say that all actors are gay

Not that I don't think that's OK

As far as I'm concerned

Although it's not my bag

If you wanna be a fag

Be a fag y'know?

Who am I to say

Where you come

And where you go

In the privacy of your own homo

Ha ha

Homo

Ha ha

Homo

Ha ha

He's shitting me now

And my eyes start to glaze

And through the haze of my anger

I notice his G and T is gone

And he's starting to dribble

As he dribbles on and fucking on

But you musos are alright

I don't know much about music

But I know what I like

And I reckon I'd throw it all in

To be like you Jim

I mean you might be poor in monetary terms

But what you earn spiritually

What makes you what you are

Just means so much more

Than what you earn from a really nice car

Or a tennis court

Or holidays in Greece

Or a house on the beach

Or stock market shares

Or twenty-one pairs

Of Calvin Klein undewear

Do you understand you are a wealthy, wealthy man

I mean I don't want to piss in your pocket

But i've gotta say

Before I get on my way

That honestly, and I'm not having you on

I reckon on day you could play the piano as good as Elton John

The cops are still mingling

Though the crowd's shuffled out

I've got ice on my hand

Where my fist met his mouth

And although I explained

That it wasn't my fault

I've a five hundred buck fine

For aggravated assault

So before it gets worse

I reckon I'll bolt

A wealthy, wealthy man

In a 1981 Mitsubishi Colt