She scrubs up well does my missus,

in her dungarees or black lace;

I experience what bliss is

when I gaze upon her face.

For although her hair is thinning

and several parts are growing fat,

there aren’t any other women

who can make me feel like that.

In her eyes the stars are swimming

without artificial gloss,

so I have to say no thank you to Kate Moss.

 

Since she split up with Pete Doherty

I’ve attracted Kate’s attention;

her efforts to get off with me

have been gathering momentum.

From St Tropez, she writes, “Dear Ray,

I want to be with you so much!”

She beseeches me to run away

and live with her over the brush.

She holds the hope that we’ll elope

to Tenerife or Barbados,

but I have to say no thank you to Kate Moss.

 

It ain’t that I don’t fancy Kate

and her legs so long and lissom,

but Kate does not appreciate

the strength of the competition.

They say Kate only shifts her arse

out of bed for a grand or more,

but for every pound of flesh she has

my missus has three or four.

When you weigh it in the balance

I’d be suffering a loss,

so I have to say no thank you to Kate Moss.

 

My missus cooks luscious lasagne,

curry and chili con carne;

that toffee stuff with banana –

Kate Moss couldn’t make a sarnie.

After a hard day at the office

I’d return asking “Tea ready yet?”

She’d be in bed drinking coffees

and smoking her weird cigarettes.

Yeah, I’ve thought about a threesome:

it would be too much of a squash,

so I have to say no thank you to Kate Moss.

 

While she’s snorting coke and smoking dope

and overdosing acid,

I’m popping little pills in hope

my vital parts aren’t flaccid.

She’s sniffing far too many lines

and damaging her septum;

I’m drinking too much beer and wine

and losing my erection.

I’d love to please but these dodgy knees

can pay homage to only one boss

and I have to say no thank you to Kate Moss.