Where’s my yacht?

I can’t afford dollar bills.

Never known the ten pound note to look so pretty,

And the golden nugget coins to shine so well.

With money so expensive,

What’s the point in being rich when I’ve got pocket full of soul and a soul full of rich.

I got a purse that sings salvation to a bankrupt nation,

But with money so expensive, what’s the point in being rich?

I got a pocket full of soul and a soul full of pitch…a whore for the filthy expression, mortgaged up to our idols like Paris Hilton, a nation full of chicken nugget travellers and pound shop luggage…inbox full of links, it stinks.

A buyer’s world for namedropper queens, rapist kings of the city, strange hotel girls waiting for their yachts, going to the bar to find the names they’ve dropped.

Parties are for lost souls, nightclubs for devils dancing, hanging on Skint Street, lost in the shadow, don’t be a hero, get on the blower, someone call China, and get us notes over.

The riches are blind with botox glows, the darling accessories of it’s all a show, we’ve always been a credit nations, I mean what do we do?  The Hacienda was the last time a factory was new.

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