HIGH LIFE (© Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan )

This is my reply to the omnipresent, wittering logohorrea of the advertising industry; with special reference to those good, homey folks who spend zillions aggressively promoting carcinogens. If I hear the word ‘new’ associated with some hoary old re-packaged chemical cocktail once more, I’ll be tempted to write a sequel.

You can get it here. You can get it there.
You can get it anywhere.
But you gotta gotta get it if you wanna stay with it!
Gotta get a coat, gotta get a boat, gotta get a tote-wheel,
gotta make a note if it gets your goat,
you feel you gotta fly high,
raise a hue and cry,
it could pass you by,
you could miss out on a great deal!

Do you suffer in your head?
You got a surfer on the web,
funny money, flow and ebb,
bank loans, Dow Jones.

Catch it on the screen,
super squeaky clean.
Better than it’s ever been!
Ooh, but they want your money!

Christmas dinner for the cat? That’s that.
Or you could go for a doggy video.
Where it’s at is a cool new flat,
trendy neighbours bringing cake and coffee,
standing on the doormat.

But what you gotta do is get it new, new, new, new!
Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme.

New way to lie, way to fly, way to die,
way to try to burn your money honey!
Ooh, but it’s funny at the health farm
working on the wheatgerm,
low sperm-counting out the calories
in valium and alimony.
Ergonomic power-punch, late brunch,
dynamism, holy chrism elements,
multi-culti vitamins and elephants’ toe nail extract
jacking off the packaging of snacks for the çakras.

Wanna be a woman? Wanna be a man?
Wanna be a wham, bam thank you?
And here’s to the year that you steer clear of here,
double trouble disappears through sheer good fortune.

You should be immune. Do it soon! Retune.
Take another look, read another book,
see how long it took cooking up a scam for the punters.

But whatever you do don’t stop.
Scramble up and top it off.
‘Cos it’s never too late if you’ve got what it takes
to decide to be taken for a ride,
to be classified a high-rise steamer!

Cough it up and keep it cool from the school to the grave.
You’re the bloke who can croak like a blue-smoke cowboy.
Strike a lighter, and in the hollow of your hand
take a lungful of answers to marketing advances.

Ooh, but you are such an individual!
Give them all your money
and they’ll leave you a residual tar-pit airway
hacking cough to polish off kicking up daisies.
You must be crazy!

The big world’s beckoning,
dig deep, lose sleep,
try and keep a tee-shirt signed for the reckoning,
follow all the sheep to the steep price, bleating,
being taken in and bubbled out for a teetering totter to the shelf,
never thinking for yourself,
with a T.V. screen where your head should have been;
and everywhere you go keep a finger on the radio
so nobody will know you’re a brain-dead bozo.