This is a song about a conversation I had with stockbroker
It´s actually a beat poem. Cool hmm?
It´s called Mitsubishi Colt
He looks at me intensely
Contact lens green with artifical envy
Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare
Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair
And theorises thus
You know what I reckon?
Pause for effect
Adjusts his tackle as if it’s semi-erect
I figure I’d better give him what I know he expects
What do you reckon?
A hand on the shoulder
An avuncular wink
Sips his lemon drink
Spits out the pips
Hands on hips
Licks his lips
Like a wolf near a flock
Yet again adjusting his fantasy cock
He delivers his philosophy
I reckon it don’t matter
It don’t mean squat
What you earn or what you got
Or the style of your hair
Or what you wear
It matters not
Like what do you care
That I live on a hill with views of the beach
That my chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each
That I’ve already reached my first million and I’m only 36
You’re as thick as two bricks
If you think you can fix
What is broke in your life with money
And the funny thing is
And I shit you not
That I’d give it all up like that
He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit
And with a click of his fingers
Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid
And grinning ridiculously
Orders a G and T
And a beer, for me
And before I can escape
He’s back saying
Cos mate, the thing is
All of that crap
It’s all superficial
It’s all just a front
Anyone can be a rich cunt
But the thing we all want
Can’t be bought with dosh
You know what I mean boss?
Cos you don’t give a toss
That when I want to get slim
I’ve got my own private gym
And a personal trainer called Danielle or fucking Darlene
She’s got tits
Like those chicks
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