The Sunday papers don't have any news
Of where you went last night
I last saw my sweetheart at quarter to eight
Givenchy and Revlon
All over the place
Ans I turn and i stare at hundreds of pages
But there's not a clue to where her pretty face is
In the colour supplements.
Im sure that MP's must be openly weeping
As they're putting a spin on the tale
Of the sudden and strange disappearance
Of the plasterer Thomas Kinsale
Maybe an alien abduction
Perhaps you're both lost
Out in space?
Cos Ive looked for you in hundreds of places
And not one of them looks like the glossy pages
Of the colour supplements.
Now I'm scanning the dregs of the small ads
And with loneliest hearts in the world.
The walls must be finished on Monday
But the plasterer's gone for a walk
Maybe there's been a disaster
Like Ess** just went up in smoke.
So turn and I stare at hundreds of pages
But there's not a clue to where her pretty face is
In the special
Twelve page
One off
Pullout
ba*tard supplement.