You've got your yucca on a pedestal
Your magazines in a rafia rack
Your style is immaculate
Never a crease or a hair our of place
You drink your dry white wine without smudging your lipstick
I'm scared to come near you, you're shrouded by your usual clique
Chic, chic
You've got me riding
On a South Ken high
You drive your GLI round your haunts in town
With your friends in their Saville Row suits
You're Laura Ashley personified
Your table cloth matches your dress
I want to talk to you but I don't know how to
My head goes go and talk but my legs say we won't walk
You've got me riding
On a South Ken high