Words: Mac Manus/M.P. Thomas

Music: M. Thomas (3:29)



The hunted look, the haunted grace

The empty laugh that you cultivate

You fall into that false embrace

And kiss the air about her face

Who do you think you are?



The tres bon mots you almost quote from your

QUIVER of literary darts

A thousand or so tuneless violins thrilling your cheap

little heart

Who do you think you are?



My cigarette burns right down to the ash, my coffee

cup is unstained

The waiter hovers close at hand

His courtesy strained



Who do you think you are?

I close with my regards

Well I'm the red-face gentleman

Caught in this picture postcard

Who do you think you are?



Trying my best to make the best of your absence

Though the joke gets tired and sordid

Sea-shell hearts get trampled under foot

Punchlines unrewarded



But even at this distance it's not easy to accept

The vision that I chase returns when I least expect it

I've fallen from your tired embrace

I kiss the air around the place that should be your face.