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Dressed up like a dog's dinner |
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Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth |
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If this is a dog's life |
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Then you're the cat's claws |
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They hire out your sons |
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And hire out your daughters |
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The man from abroad says he's already bought her |
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And now you look like a lover but you're only a tourist |
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You're either talking or yawning |
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You didn't listen to a thing you heard |
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Don't start your morning moaning |
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Or you might wake up in Luxembourg, ooh |
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You get over, you get over |
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You're worried by her body |
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She's worryin' about her bodily odour |
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You pull off the pull over |
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You say that you love her when you really loathe her |
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Serves you right now she wants you to feed her and clothe her |
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You're either talking or yawning |
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You didn't listen to a thing you heard |
|
Don't start your morning moaning |
|
Or you might wake up in Luxembourg |
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They're smiling sweetly while they're looking daggers |
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Kick you where it really matters |
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Send all your friends to Coventry |
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And look for your name in last night's obituaries |
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If you've got the Deutschmarks |
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If you've got the Yen, then |
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You get the shirt off her back and the clock off Big Ben |
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Somebody's soft touch |
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Struck all these bargains |
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In the drinking clubs with the council men |
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Making plans to put lead back in their pencils again |
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You're either talking or yawning |
|
You didn't listen to a thing you heard |
|
Don't start your morning moaning |
|
Or you might wake up in Luxembourg |
|
Well |
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Well, well, well |
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Well, well, well |
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Ooh |
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Well, well, well |