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Sketchead is coming to your party |
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He's walking up your drive and he's swinging all his keys round |
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Sketchead |
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He's seen you with your top off |
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He already knows your boyfriend, retain your introductions |
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Sketchead |
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That cumbersome protagonist |
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The pips in your quince |
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They eye behind the spy hole |
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The itch you can't itch in your ear |
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And the knock that shattered your packet of peppermints |
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Sketchead |
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There's poison in his spit |
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He'll compliment your tits and leave you to your wits |
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Sketchead |
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Convincingly insisting the tyres were bald when you gave him the car |
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Sketchead |
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Still coming to your party |
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Still walking up your drive |
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And still swinging all his keys round on his finger |
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As a pendulum to unnerve |
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And then there's you |
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You've changed |
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I approached you like you were the same |
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But soon it was apparent a new name was required |
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New lips went and fired accomplishments at me |
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While I'm captivated by your magazine skin |
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The tint on your lenses obscures to begin |
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And you know full well |
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That anyone who says that |
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They don't prefer the sequel |
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Will still be swinging on themselves tonight |
