The face I hope he pulls when reading this.
I feel as if Alex is appropriate,
I’ve known you since thirteen,
In a one way kind of relationship,
And probably over keen.
Though if I’m honest it’s starting to disintegrate,
Which could be kinda frightening,
For the success of your record sales,
But y’see, you’ve got me Crying Lightning.
When we first started it was all,
I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor,
Whereas now I’m feeling a bit hard done by,
You need to Snap Out of It for sure.
Stop telling these Fake Tales of San Francisco,
And reconsider how you come across,
Whatever happened to Red Lights Indicating Doors are Secured?
You’re making me rather cross.
You’ve gone from The Ritz to the Rubble,
But let’s reverse the way it sounds,
And you’ve forgotten that precious rubble,
And waste millions of pounds.
Which brings me to my next point,
It seems you’ve done The Bad Thing,
Tax avoidance isn’t rock and roll,
And stop pretending to be ‘The King’.
I saw you when you returned,
Back to 505,
Just a bunch of Pretty Visitors,
Postponing playing live.
So here’s the thing Mr Turner,
If I may call you that,
You’ve had your chance, I’ve defended you,
But now I smell a rat.
Your public image morphs consistently,
And I was never one to question,
But now I feel you’ve let us down,
I hope you’ve learned a lesson.
Your music is still fabulous, your lyrics a simple triumph,
But your personality has morphed into something less desired,
Ask me about a year ago and I’d have worshipped the ground you walked on,
But now I’d rather kick my own face than go where you’ve come from.