Fosca 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
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
I blame the lure of the laissez-faire
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