Paroles de The Millionaire Of Your Own Hair
I dreamt the film of my life as directed by Joseph Losey.It was eight minutes long, and cast as me was Parker Posey.
It had a limited run in the small hours on Channel Four.
And all of my scenes ended up on the cutting room floor.
Because from Stockholm to Bolton they're coming to Soho in droves.
For a sniff of some "face" whose skin barely touches his clothes.
There's little more to your name but a cool, sharp, three-button pose.
Ordering drinks with a flick of your famed button nose.
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left.
You traded them for every friendship's death,
Of which you're a millionaire.
If truth be told, I only wanted something for my cold.
I blame the lure of the laissez-faire
That you're the millionaire of your own hair.
I left my last social circle and I hid for a while.
I worked in an undertaker's so I wouldn't have to smile.
There's five weeks' worth of homework nestling under your bed.
While between the sheets skulks a grateful deputy head.
After Double French you silently slip your moorings.
And kill an hour or two in town defacing catalogues of vinyl flooring.
You're swearing in received pronunciation to impress a cute librairian.
And exchanging hooded glances with the townies and the precinct barbarians.
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left. That you're the millionaire of your own hair.
There is an ancient journalist and he stoppeth one in three.
And he's asking me if I equate dressing badly with insincerity.
He's writing a book called "How To Tell Taxi Drivers They're Wrong."
And he doesn't trust people, but he knows his all-time favouite song.
Now the millionaire is busy pulling single dads on underground trains.
And he's blanking the old hack with characteristic haughty disdain.
Today he's fitting in a louche professor of Drama and Mime.
He says "I'd love to be lonely but I can't seem to find the time"
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left.
You traded them for stakes in crystal meth,
So you're a millionaire.
If truth be told, I only came for something for my cold.
You're telling the newspaper questionnaires
That you're the millionaire.
Yes, you're the millionaire of your own hair.
Ordering drinks with a flick of your famed button nose.
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left.
You traded them for every friendship's death,
Of which you're a millionaire.
If truth be told, I only wanted something for my cold.
I blame the lure of the laissez-faire
That you're the millionaire of your own hair.
I left my last social circle and I hid for a while.
I worked in an undertaker's so I wouldn't have to smile.
There's five weeks' worth of homework nestling under your bed.
While between the sheets skulks a grateful deputy head.
After Double French you silently slip your moorings.
And kill an hour or two in town defacing catalogues of vinyl flooring.
You're swearing in received pronunciation to impress a cute librairian.
And exchanging hooded glances with the townies and the precinct barbarians.
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left. That you're the millionaire of your own hair.
There is an ancient journalist and he stoppeth one in three.
And he's asking me if I equate dressing badly with insincerity.
He's writing a book called "How To Tell Taxi Drivers They're Wrong."
And he doesn't trust people, but he knows his all-time favouite song.
Now the millionaire is busy pulling single dads on underground trains.
And he's blanking the old hack with characteristic haughty disdain.
Today he's fitting in a louche professor of Drama and Mime.
He says "I'd love to be lonely but I can't seem to find the time"
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left.
You traded them for stakes in crystal meth,
So you're a millionaire.
If truth be told, I only came for something for my cold.
You're telling the newspaper questionnaires
That you're the millionaire.
Yes, you're the millionaire of your own hair.
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