Where's the nice people at my door? Where's my night in Studio 54? Childhood issues dug up by the press Paparazzis down the alleyway Don't you ever give in, make the best And chase your most prophetic, wildest dreams Then I'd get to be a king And I'll later describe the pros and cons of London city stardom way of life To the Guardian or the Times The night before some stranger wakes me up to say You wish You know I'd fly To your mackerel sky You know I'd fly To your mackerel sky Then I'd call my editor She would get me out of this maze I'm sorry sir, I can't find you in the database How come? I've been a client since the Grammy? Is this because I drank Capaldi's Buckfast tonic wine? You know I'd fly To your mackerel sky You know I'd fly To your mackerel sky