We Hold Our Heads High -- Albert Mobilio

Pretend if you can that it's last summer's fairground
Your conquest amazing the guys in their work boots
We're running the show, a buyer's bonanza
Falling all over ourselves
We're up at the crack, we're ready to crow

An hour of sullen, an hour of angry
The rules make you sock it away for the weekend
She rouses herself to autograph my shame
She's deadlocked, plain English she tries
to loosen its tendrils while tightening its signs

I wanted to join with the impulse patrol
Ride the sensation of being allowed
I'm hearing her sway in her best-dressed evasion
Yes, I'm over a barrel
and bobbing for tastes that I've schemed for too long