He is clean, but not too clean
His breath fresh, but not too fresh
These are the results of a shower without soup
And just one pellet of gum
He carefully returns his second phone
To his refuge beneath the front room floor
Gently flattens the rug ontop and strips down to his underwear
He find his wallet, filled with the credit cards he hasn't used
And lays it on the kitchen counter in its familiar place
To be found in the morning by a curious consort

Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love
It's the curse of fools to be secure
We are sportsmen, we are conquerers
The day is disease and night the cure

He never uses names
That's too dangerous
He calls them baby and sweet cheeks and hot stuff and darling
And he's a master of the feigned surprise
A doyen of deception
Sometimes he wonders if he could have been on the telly
He really is that good

Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love
It's the curse of fools to be secure
We are sportsmen, we are conquerers
The day is disease and night the cure

He knows the quiet floorboards
Knows exactly where to tread
Even in this state, his muscle has memory
He's a tiptoeing Travolta, a minging Michael Jackson
Lighting up the timbers underfoot

And as he silently approaches the bedroom door
He wonders, as always, if maybe he's getting too old for this
But, as always, he concludes
Well, Mick Jagger does it and he's older than me

Copyright: BMG Rights Management
Writer(s): Aiden Moffat, Malcolm Middleton