The hunted look, the haunted grace
|
The empty laugh that you cultivate
|
You fall into that false embrace
|
And kiss the air about her face
|
Who do you think you are?
|
The tres bon mots you almost quote from your
|
QUIVER of literary darts
|
A thousand or so tuneless violins thrilling your cheap
|
little heart
|
Who do you think you are?
|
|
My cigarette burns right down to the ash, my coffee
|
cup is unstained
|
The waiter hovers close at hand
|
His courtesy strained
|
|
Who do you think you are?
|
I close with my regards
|
Well I'm the red-face gentleman
|
Caught in this picture postcard
|
Who do you think you are?
|
|
Trying my best to make the best of your absence
|
Though the joke gets tired and sordid
|
Sea-shell hearts get trampled under foot
|
Punchlines unrewarded
|
|
But even at this distance it's not easy to accept
|
The vision that I chase returns when I least expect it
|
I've fallen from your tired embrace
|
I kiss the air around the place that should be your face.
|
|
-----------------
|
Who Do You Think You Are?
|
| Elvis Costello |
