the plate spinner spins his plates but he’s let things slip a little of late his life in pieces at his feet that magic touch that filled the seats a helpless helping of butter fingers now all washed-up he takes a bow what a shame what a pity this inconsequential little ditty.
As they stitch each other up and paint their eyebrows and gloss their lips designer label lovers are as real as the clothes they hang on their hips.
The show over, they dine where restaurant cooks stir (with a fag in their mouth) behind kitchen doors. As bedtime wardrobe window-dressers, they wake up the next day: Just part-time boutique assistants, where make-believe breakfast champagne pours.
In a snap-happy speed-camera cop paradise ‘Just Married’ motorists are caught with confetti and rice as, pulling over to the side of the road, The tug-of-war team coach breaks down and is towed.
Meanwhile, But I was just about to excuse-makers become traffic-warden fined For fuck sakers with Inland Revenue tax-dodgers on double yellow lines and Monopoly military vehicles landing on land mines.
So, as extremely sensitive and vulnerable artists write off their Rolls Royces in psychedelic fashion Zebra-crossing senior citizens wave their fists at the boy-racer no-respect generation.
Meantime, as taxi-drivers hit the disco streets Hailers chuck it down, and up, in the back of their seats. When, on an icy cold morning, the car won’t start country folk take their horse and cart.
Cracking bottles open is over and them crashing down is on. Days of letting the wine flow are here but those of drinking it have gone.
There’s a lot of cleaning up going on in this Hoover era as barrels spill their guts out on the floor. The anti-saloon league forbid the knocking back of beer but bootleggers are pouring in to spite spike the law.