Friday's gym and Sunday's grim   He sees an analyst on tuesday morning   She's no happier than him   She only likes to hear her own voice talking   Oh well have you seen her face   Soaked in hype and foolishness   They say when you upped and left   Your parents didn't even notice      50 years to go, ooh la la   And it seems to me that you're all dead already      Wifey works on style mags   Thin girls with bruises in her pictures   Halfway down she lost herself   I think they call it butterfingers   Oh well it's a cosy place   Occasional domestic flare-ups   Oh well have you seen her face   She actually believes in haircuts      You sold your old punk records   Read the book instead   You lost your sense of humour   But you kept the 'Queen Is Dead'   You don't look yourself   You dress like your mother