He is clean, but not too clean
His breath fresh, but not too fresh
These are the results of a shower without soap
And just one pellet of gum
He carefully returns his second phone to his refuge beneath the front room floor
Gently flattens the rug on top
And strips down to his underwear
He finds his wallet
Filled with the credit cards he hasn't used
And lays it on the kitchen counter in its familiar place
To be found in the morning by a curious consort
Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love
It's the curse of fools to be secure
We are sportsmen, we are conquerors
The day is disease and night the cure
He never uses names
That's too dangerous
He calls them baby and sweet cheeks and hot stuff and darling
And he's a master of the feigned surprise
A doyen of deception
Sometimes he wonders if he could have been on the telly
He really is that good
Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love
It's the curse of fools to be secure
We are sportsmen, we are conquerors
The day is disease and night the cure
He knows the quiet floorboards
Knows exactly where to tread
Even in this state, his muscle has memory
He's a tiptoeing Travolta, a minging Michael Jackson
Lighting up the timbers underfoot
And as he silently approaches the bedroom door
He wonders, as always
If maybe he's getting too old for this
But, as always, he concludes
"Well, Mick Jagger does it
And he's older than me"
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
