As I walked into the charity store   I saw a second-hand shirt hangin' up by the door   The collar was frayed, there was a stain on the cuff   Caused by ketchup or blood or some such stuff   It wasn't made of polyester or nylon   The label said "made in the uk" so I tried it on   And I looked in the mirror and declared   "i like this shirt, I want it"      It's not the label on the shirt that you wear   It's the way that you wear it   They say it's style and breeding and culture that counts   But you can't change good taste on the expense account   And if design or fashion makes you a hero   You can dress all highbrow but still be an emotional zero   But I declare "it's not the shirt you wear   It's the way that you wear it"      I was looking for danger, I should have taken more care   I was dressed to kill, I felt so debonair   Wild expectations, arrogant air   Then I walked into that bar, she was standing there   I walked over with all my savoir fair   And she said "you're a smart looking dude   But your character's ugly, it clashes with my shoes   And i, I can't stand your attitude"      I assumed it was leading to a romantic interlude   I thought my conquest was made   But I was stunned by the magnitude   Of her ingratitude   I spent a good thirty bucks on this babe   Like the shirt I was wearing      This romantic affair was not destined to last   The harder I tried, the louder she laughed   I was reduced to despair, my emotions laid bare   She knew I was hurt, made me feel like a jerk   I was humbled, humiliated, castrated   My masculinity dragged through the dirt   Then thrown in the air to be devoured by the lions   The vultures, the jackals and all the scavengers of love   I was strutting around with my chest stuck out   Like a peacock preparing to get laid   Thought I looked cool but she put me down   She said "you look like a clown on a circus parade"   Still the shirt has class, it looks well made   She was a babe of the first degree   She was totally fantabulous   Like a goddess from greece and yet   The epitome of the 20th century femininity   She was in her own league   She was meant for me, it was destiny   Like adam and eve, synchronisity   She brought out the testosterone in me      Last time I saw that babe she was smiling contentedly   Now I'm trapped on this murder rap, a mistaken identity   It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me   Now this cop says "it's up to you, death row or solitude   Crime of passion, you should plead 'insane'   You say you wouldn't lie, but we've just blown your alibi   We've found your shirt and it's got a blood stain"      It was the shirt you were wearing   It was the shirt you were wearing