Just a little touch of make-up; just a little touch of bull;
Just a little 3-chord trick embedded in your platform soul;
You can wear a gold piaget on your semaphore wrist;
You can dance the old adage with a dapper new twist
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium,
Live and die upon your cross of platinum
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you think (know) you really are
Crawl inside your major triad, curl up and laugh as your agent scores another front page photograph
Is it them or is it you throwing dice inside the loo awaiting someone else to pull the chain
Well grab the old bog-handle, hold your breath and light a candle
Clear your throat and pray for rain to irrigate the corridors that echo in your brain
Filled with empty nothingness, empty hunger pains
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium,
Live and die upon your cross of platinum
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you think (know) you really are