Verse 1 Strolling through Chelsea with a synthetic gleam, Wrapped in a raincoat that bursts at the seam. The logo is massive, a desperate plea, Money can’t purchase a pedigree. Chorus Oh, the price tag was heavy, the fabric is light, A sartorial nightmare out mainly for spite. Vintage is gold, but that’s just debris, There's nothing quite as sad as forced luxury. Verse 2 Loafers are pinching your blistered feet, Clashing so loud with the grey London street. Socks with those sandals? A distinct mistake, How much humiliation can one ego take? Verse 3 Holding court at the bar with a haughty glare, Ignoring the whispers that float through the air. Trend is a stranger you clearly don't know, Dressed like a scarecrow in Savile Row. Outro (Spoken softly over fading double bass) Keep the hanger, darling. You’re going to need the support. Terrible.
