Tim Minchin - Mitsubishi Colt | Текст песни

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• Tim Minchin
• Mitsubishi Colt

He looks at me intensely
Eyes 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 feel 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 26?
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 fuckin' Darlene
She's got tits
Like those chicks
In Ralph magazine

"And it's not like you care
That I own the controlling share
Of an overseas company
That builds accounting software
It matters not one bit
I mean who gives a shit
That I earn six hundred grand
And drive a brand new land rover?
You know I would hand it all over like that!"

He pauses for a beat
Long enough for me to retreat to a seat
And sit, elbow on the bar
And contemplate this guru
With his white teeth and big car
And ponder silently my belief
That genius comes in many a form
And that this postulating, peroxided porn-star prick... ain't one of them

My specultaion cut short
As he reforms
Like Terminator II
And before I have time to abort
He descends upon me and snorts,
"I guess what I'm trying to say
In my own little way
Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that
Well, I reckon they're great
I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums
And don't get out of bed til the pizza man comes
And smoke cones
And take crack
And whack off all day
But I don't care what they say
And I don't listen to people
Who say that all actors are gay
Not that I don't think that's OK
As far as I'm concerned
Although it's not my bag
If you wanna be a fag
Be a fag y'know?
Who am I to say
Where you come
And where you go
In the privacy of your own homo?
Ha-ha! Homo!
Ha-ha! Homo!
Ha-ha!"
He's shitting me now

And my eyes start to glaze
And through the haze of my anger
I notice his G and T is gone
And he's starting to dribble
As he dribbles on and fucking on
"But you musos are alright
I don't know much about music
But I know what I like
And I reckon I'd throw it all in
To be like you Jim." "Tim."
"I mean you might be poor in monetary terms
But what you earn spiritually
What makes you what you are
Just means so much more
Than what you earn from a really nice car
Or a tennis court
Or holidays in G

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