So this is where he came to hide. When he ran from you. In a private detective's overcoat. And dirty dead man's shoes. The pretty things of Knightsbridge. Lying for a minister of state. Is a far cry from the nod and wink. Here at traitor's gate. 'Cause the high heel he used to be has been ground down. And he listens for the footsteps that would follow him around. To murder my love is a crime. But will you still love. A man out of time. There's a tuppeny hapenny millionaire. Looking for a fourpenny one. With a tight grip on the short hairs. Of the public imagination. But for his private wife and kids somehow. Real life becomes a rumour. Days of dutch courage. Just three French letters and a German sense of humour. He's got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge. He stands to be insulted and he pays for the privilege. (chorus). The biggest wheels of industry. Retire sharp and short. And the after dinner overtures. Are nothing but an after thought. Somebody's creeping in the kitchen. There's a reputation to be made. Whose nerves are always on a knife's edge. Who's up late polishing the blade. Love is always scarpering or cowering or fawning. You drink yourself insensitive and hate yourself in the morning.