US cool costs too much money

And takes up all my time

British humour isn't funny

I'm just trying to catch your eye



You've no idea what your looks do to me

It doesn't even cross your mind

You don't look like the kind to say much

But then I'm the quiet type



When you rise up from the gutter

You can play your hand

It's not enough until you've suffered

Nobody gives a damn



When where you're at is all that matters

It's all a question of your style

A catwalk stalk that cures your stutter

You're not the shy type



Not much I wouldn't do for money

Can't seem to draw the line

But this much lust tastes sweet as honey

And floors me every time



You've no idea what your looks do to me

It doesn't even cross your mind

Then again I think it's funny

You might be my type