[Intro] Good evening, esteemed pedestrians. Observe the gentleman arrive—no running required. [Verse 1] I step through the room with a measured attack, Left shoe talking back while the right keeps track. Butler said, “Sir, that stride needs repair,” I said, “It’s a premium model of aristocratic flair.” Cufflinks flash, chin high, coat pressed neat, Even when I trip, I land on the beat. No haste, no panic, no need to explain, I make poor decisions look expensive again. [Pre-Chorus] One foot, one glance, keep the posture on lock, Take the long way round when I’m watching the clock. [Chorus] Walklook Walk and look, make the whole room turn. Walklook Keep your chin up, let the trousers learn. Walklook, Walklook, Stride so strange but the confidence cooks. If they ask what the style is— Tell ’em: Walklook. [Verse 2] Conversation quaint, but the phrasing is grand, Pear-shaped hat gets a nod from my hand. Optician showed letters, I adjusted my waistcoat, Said, “That chart lacks tailoring—hardly a close quote.” I compliment the critic, then I charge through the hall, A pigeon on the garden wall gave judgment for all. Still I bow to the panel, accept the review, Then take my distinguished little shuffle right through. [Pre-Chorus] No sprint, no scramble, let the dignity cook, Every awkward entrance gets a second look. [Chorus] Walklook Walk and look, make the whole room turn. Walklook Keep your chin up, let the trousers learn. Walklook, Walklook, Stride so strange but the confidence cooks. If they ask what the style is— Tell ’em: Walklook. [Verse 3] I don’t do shortcuts, they’re vulgar by design, I take the marmalade route and arrive on time. Clock struck twelve, I struck a pose by the rose, Then walked straight in—still maintained composure. Knees might quiver, but the jacket stays clean, A minor catastrophe in a major routine. My limp has a title, my shuffle has books, Every room gets improved when I give it a look. [Bridge] Walk with purpose, look with care, Smooth the lapel and arrange the hair. If the ankle objects, let the ankle discuss— Call it modern movement, never call it fuss. [Final Chorus] Walklook Walk and look, make the whole room turn. Walklook Keep your chin up, let the trousers learn. Walklook, Walklook, Refined disaster with a gentleman’s hook. No matter how the entrance went— That was Walklook. [Outro] Walklook. Do carry on. And if anyone asks about the limp— It was the chair.
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