[Verse 1] [Crooning Vocals] I’d say I barely.. know you. No more. Just a silhouette dancing on the hotel floor. I’m absolutely skint, darling. Down to the core. Don’t wanna be your trophy. Or your bore. [Pre-Chorus] [Melodic Build Up] The autumn leaves are rotting. Outside the liquor store. I tried to fix you. But it’s become a chore. Left my common sense. In the cloakroom by the door. [Chorus] [Swagger Beat] [Falsetto Backing Vocals] Claim that you HATE IT. Spin the bottle. Complicate it. All this SYNTHETIC... sentimental glory. Just a B-movie script. In a tragic story. [Post-Chorus] [Heavy Guitar Riff] Caught like a deer in the halogen glow. Sipping on voices from the library store. Only to find the shards of a mirrorball embedded somewhere deep, refusing to go. (To lose control) [Verse 2] [Spoken Word] I don’t judge. The way you pose. But that’s a knock-off version of a designer rose. [Sung] You’ve lost your phone? Or have you just... lost the plot? Masquerading like an heiress. When you clearly are not. [Chorus] [Anthemic] Claim that you HATE IT. Spin the bottle. Complicate it. All this SYNTHETIC... sentimental glory. Just a B-movie script. In a tragic story. [Bridge] [Orchestral Swell] Rewind the tape. Cut the scene. Just a vintage nightmare. In a magazine. Stop Sorted. [Outro] [Fading Guitar Solo] Synthetic glory. Mirrorball story. (Yeah) [Spoken Fade Out] Just a whisper on the cold, damp air. (Phu) I say whisper, I don’t want— [End]
