With her friends on a road less travelled
|
On a journey of do's and dares
|
Looking back on a fear of leaving
|
And forgetting how it felt to be scared
|
There are those paying fancy prices
|
To pretend they have fancy lives
|
But at every charity banquet
|
The majority stay outside
|
|
We play to a packed gallery
|
We smile for the CCTV
|
We're making our own history
|
When fine society sits down to dine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
Pissing in the wine, pissing in the wine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
|
She'd love to be dancing the tango
|
And she traces the steps in her mind
|
You can tell by the snap of her fingers
|
That she moves to a different time
|
Where all the quiet submission
|
Is smeared in lipstick red
|
And every act is a crime of passion
|
"That's not all she wrote," she said
|
"That's not all she wrote," she said
|
"That's not all she wrote," she said
|
"That's not all she wrote," she said
|
|
We play to a packed gallery
|
We smile for the CCTV
|
We're making our own history
|
When fine society sits down to dine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
Pissing in the wine, pissing in the wine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
|
When fine society sits down to dine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
Pissing in the wine, pissing in the wine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
|
When fine society sits down to dine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
Pissing in the wine, pissing in the wine
|
Remember that someone is pissing in the wine
|
|
-----------------
|
When Fine Society Sits Down To Dine
|
| Chumbawamba |
