Testo di 'Everything Is Everything' di Paul Heaton

When Hip-Hops selling perfume (and) Boy bands selling grief
The Bluesmen market life insurance Just one foot underneath
Jazz has come to nothing But transparent handkerchief
Everything is Anything to Anyone

The Butcher sells you pantihose The Supermarket sells you land
The Newsreader likes to read the news But he's also in a band
And Feminism's fast asleep With a cock in either hand
Everything is Anything to Anyone

Modern, modern man is a man of many mates
So we decorate, we imitate We duplicate our greats
It's the sound of Octopuses Giving infinite high eights
Everybody's business is show business

The newsagent sells you holidays The travel shop sells you sand
The local vicar saves your soul But he also saves the damned
Nothings black and white no more Just permanently tanned
Everything is Everything to Everyone

Locate, locate, locate Locate the victim's house
Swap the wives and take their lives And turn them inside out
Nothing left in closet, nothing left in doubt
Everything is Anything to Anyone

Modern, modern woman's juggling many knives
Duplicating, imitating Other people's lives
To the sound of a million whistling wolves
From the grounds of a thousand building sites
Everybody's business is show business

And the thin are getting thinner
The big are getting bigger
Till 5 and 75 year olds
Worry 'bout their figure
The big are getting bigger
The thin are getting thinner
Till everyones looking (everyone's cooking)
At everyone else's dinner

And the indoors want you Oliver The outdoors want you Oddie
The bank they want a Tex or Hank The mic' wants Pavarotti
Kitchen, garden, wardrobe Property in the sun
Everthing is Anything to Anyone

And this Your Space-My Space Their Big Mouth
Turns Everything OutsideInside Out
And Your Tube-My Tube Everybody's Spout
Everything is Anything Owt is Fucking Nowt

And we shave our heads To make us look thin
Till the whole fuckin' earths this fat, bald Skin
Till the fitness instructors And the owners of the gym
Are siegheiling down From the balcony of the trim

And the neighbour of the chauffeur Of the brother of the act
Is helping selling papers By omitting just one fact
That he doesn't really know them But what he knows for sure
Is everybody's hands Are in everyone else's knicker draw

With Easter eggs in January and Christmas lights in June
Anything that's barely over's coming back real soon

Some folk call it gluttony, some folk call it greed
It's just a million fucking pigeons to a single grain of seed