(Elvis Costello / Live Union Chapel 99) 


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