From television presenters and Radio 2 jocks to people in the Royal Circle, it seems everyone is sampling Hell's Own Harpic
It's a mad amount of money,
Buys a small amount of powder
Makes the conversation louder
And the mediocre clever.
From the land of never-never
Where the toilet is a palace
Comes a symphony of sniffing.
It's a mad amount of money.
A sheen upon the upper cheek
A beak-lunch for a busy week.
My god, it's bloody boring
Watching some pathetic geek
Pat the stash-bag in his pocket
While he tries to play the star
In a fashionable khazi
Which purports to be a bar.
For a dab of nuclear sherbet
It's a mad amount of money,
As they disappear for ages
And the atmosphere goes funny
On the stilted paranoia
Of the insecurely groovy
With designer sinus headache
And a nostril that is runny.
In the provinces, the people
Who are last along the queue
Get a little in for Christmas
For their girlfriends and
themselves
'Cos it makes them feel naughty
When they get to over 40
With the healthy-lifestyle leaflets
On their pastel-coloured shelves.
It's a mad amount of money
For a frozen little smile
From a trollop in the papers
Whose stupidity's in style.
And it's really wild and wacky
What these dazzling people do;
I expect Bolivian children
In the jail cells think so too.
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