I Bet You That You Look Good On The Sofa

Britain’s gone stir crazy for navel gazing teens
Who neatly rhyme in diatribes ‘bout their daily routines

Oh I went to 6th form I saw a nice boy
I went out to a night club and shouted oi oi

It’s filofax pop / A phone book of dross
If I buy these jeans I can look like Kate Moss
And we all just lap it up - hey totally Top of the Pops
Vicariously reliving our time on alcopops

But they say nothing to me about my life
So hang the Arctic Monkeys
I have a flat a cat and a wife
I know not how to get funky

Cos my dancing days are done
and everyone seems vexed
You’ll have no more fun
and you’ll never have the sex

they taunt us with marital cliches
and they berate us for laming out
cos a night on the tiles for us these days
usually involves some grout

But it’s not all about property programmes
rich couple buys house - do I care?
the only grand designs I have
are on you in your underwear

And I wouldn’t wife swap you
to chauvinist with a pickled liver
So channel 4 can stroke it’s chin
and say look how the classes differ

cos when you flash that devious smile
I know what I’m missing
CSI’s on in a while
Let’s leave some DNA for Grisham

When those pointless teens are gurning
Let’s keep the home fires burning
we’ll put on Duran Duran’s The Chauffer
I bet that you look good on the sofa

Romance isn’t dead
Though I’ve a case of rigor mortis
Quick – house meeting – in bed
Let’s do what Biggie taught us

Let me fumble with your zippers
Wearing nothing but my slippers
You can eat your breakfast kippers
Of my slightly bulging tum

We’ll do what man and wife’s suppose’ta
Cos you look peachy on that sofa
Fuck the housework rota
Let me look upon your bum

Eternally

And it’s such a nice bottom too
I want to watch it, grin on my face
Sashay up the aisles of B&Q
Promenade down boardwalks in some far off place

Saunter through suburbia on the school run
Step out like Titania in the midnight sun

As we grow old disgracefully
Embarrassing the cat
O! she’ll never understand
Us violating furniture
Between tv on demand

The perpetual bottle of red on the side
Your two papers in bed
on a Sunday morning
Your thumb jammed in my belly button
That wakes me up like a nuclear warning

The closest to one we’ll ever hear
On our forfeited pig farm
On some remote hillside
Because we’re got life right here in this house
No need to be with anyone else
It’s easier to hear someone
When there’s no beats in the background
And I want to remain here forever
Dancing to your sound