New York Ivy Songtext
von Paul Heaton + Jacqui Abbott

He had a massive gong by the side of his bed
Most folk just had a lamp
And the tattoos where family names usually read
He had ′Legend' and ′I Am The Champ'

And in this dark age of plasticity
His beard, it felt somehow so real
Something he could touch right next to his skin
Whilst attempting all along to conceal

Conceal his hidden intent
He ain't after women and he certainly ain′t bent
He′s a new man, not the old, old, type
He don't drink pints or carry the wife

Every time he opens his mouth, it′s like New York ivy
Clinging to the conversation like the densest of fogs
And the words that he chooses to use are simply New York ivy
Twirling round and snapping your ankles like the neighbour's dogs


And it was kinda instead of sort of
′Bunch' instead of ′group', and every second word was 'guys′
You grab a shower, grab a coffee
Jump into a cab, and then they do some steak and fries

And the beard grows down his face like New York ivy
And the beard grows down his face like New York ivy

She liked her rap like she liked her coffee
Tepid and most definitely white
And her football team, like her taste in fellas
Was entertaining, but incredibly shite

And in this easier age of domesticity
Something made her cling to the cloth
Long for the day when he came home from work
And demanded that she got her kit off

And it was retro kit, sign of the day
Another one claiming Macclesfield away
A season ticket holder since ′72
A Stone Roses hat and a bee tattoo

And every time he opens his mouth, it's like New York ivy
Clinging to the conversation like the densest of fogs
And the words that he chooses to use are simply New York ivy
Twirling round and snapping your ankles like the neighbour′s dogs


And it was 'kinda′ instead of 'sort of
′Bunch' instead of 'group′, and every second word was ′guys'
They grab a shower, grab a coffee
Jump into a cab, and then they do some steak and fries

And the beard grows down his face like New York ivy
And the beard grows down his face like New York ivy

In survival of the hippest, the hippest survive
You can′t shake hands, you can only high-five
It's a fist bump after every joke
Banal conversation that′ll cause you to choke

On a posh pork pie, pretentious beer
Spit and sawdust got expensive round here
It's a new ′joint', the latest place
Where they wouldn't know style if it smacked them in the face

A slap round the chops is what the world needs
A bath full of water and a couple of leads
Couple of leads, couple of leads
Couple of leads