Dress Like Your Mother

Friday's gym and Sunday's grim

He sees an analyst on Tuesday morning

She's no happier than him

She only likes to hear her own voice talking

Oh well, have you seen her face?

Soaked in hype and foolishness

They say when you upped and left

Your parents didn't even notice

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already

Wifey works on style mags

Thin girls with bruises in her pictures

Halfway down she lost herself

I think they call it butterfingers

Oh well, it's a cosy place

Occasional domestic flare-ups

Oh well, have you seen her face?

She actually believes in haircuts

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already

You sold your old punk records

Record book instead

You lost your sense of humour

But you kept The Queen Is Dead

You don't look yourself

You dress like your mother

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already

Fifty years to go, ooh la la

And it seems to me that you're all dead already