Everything Is Everything - Paul Heaton

When hip-hops selling perfume and boy bands selling grief

The blues men market life insurance, just one foot underneath

Jazz has come to nothing but transparent handkerchief

Everything is anything to anyone

The butcher sells you pantyhose, the supermarket sells you land

The newsreader likes to read the news but he’s also in a band

And feminism’s fast asleep with a cock in either hand

Everything is anything to anyone

Modern, modern man is a man of many mates

So we decorate, we imitate, we duplicate our greats

It’s the sound of octopuses giving infinite high-eights

Everybody’s business is show business

The newsagent sells you holidays, the travel shop sells you sand

The local vicar saves your soul but he also saves the damned

Nothing’s black and white no more, just permanently tanned

Everything is anything to anyone

Locate, locate, locate, locate the victim’s house

Swap the wives and take their lives and turn them inside out

Nothing left in closet, nothing left in doubt

Everything is anything to anyone

Modern, modern woman’s juggling many knives

Duplicating, imitating other people’s lives

To the sound of a million whistling wolves from the grounds of a thousand

building sites

Everybody’s business is show business

And the thin are getting thinner, the big are getting bigger

Till five and seventy-five year olds worry 'bout their figure

The big are getting bigger, the thin are getting thinner

Till everyone’s looking, everyone’s cooking everyone else’s dinner

And the indoors want you, Oliver;

the outdoors want you, Oddie

The bank, they want a Tex or Hank;

the mic wants Pavarotti

Kitchen, garden, wardrobe, property in the sun

Everything is anything to anyone

And this YourSpace, Myspace, their big mouth

Turns everything outside inside out

And YourTube, MyTube, everybody’s spout

Everything is anything and owt is fucking nowt

Modern, modern children, modern girls and boys

Leaving all their nursery rhymes, ignoring all their toys

It’s the sound of shoot-'em-up making all the fucking noise

Every kid’s business is his own business

And the thin are getting thinner, the big are getting bigger

Till five and seventy-five year olds worry 'bout their figure

The big are getting bigger, the thin are getting thinner

Till everyone’s looking, everyone’s cooking everyone else’s dinner

And we shave our heads to make us look thin

Till the whole fucking Earth’s this fat, bald skin

Till the fitness instructors and the owners of the gym

Are «Seig Heil"ing down from the balcony of the trim

And the neighbour of the chauffeur of the brother of the act

Is helping selling papers by omitting just one fact

That he doesn’t really know them but what he knows for sure

Is everybody’s hands are in everyone else’s knicker drawer

With Easter eggs in January, Christmas lights in June

Anything that’s barely over’s coming back real soon

Ah, some folk call it gluttony, some folk call it greed

It’s just a million fucking pigeons to a single grain of seed

And the thin are getting thinner, the big are getting bigger

Till five and seventy-five year olds worry 'bout their figure

The big are getting bigger, the thin are getting thinner

Till everyone’s looking, everyone’s cooking everyone else’s dinner

Everybody’s business is show business…