If a man in his fifties has changed past compare,
If he looks like he’s wearing his clothes for a dare,
If he’s grown a naff goatee and shaved off his hair
And he starts wearing jewellery, then, mark, my advice is:
That man’s in the grip of a bad midlife crisis
He stops wearing ties and he starts chewing gum,
Sports T-shirts with slogans as daft as they come,
Wears trendy jeans cut so tight round the bum
That, if he’s not careful, they’ll give him cystitis,
The man in the grip of a bad midlife crisis
If he jacks in his job, ‘cause he says it’s “too beige”
And he wants to play drums or to go on the stage,
If he ogles young girls who’re a fraction his age,
Gives rein to his whims and indulges his vices,
That man’s in the grip of a bad midlife crisis.
If he buys a Ferrari and dumps his old Rover,
If he suddenly thinks he’s the new Casanova,
If his aftershave stinks, ‘cause he’s “splashed it all over”,
That man who now reeks of cheap booze and Old Spice is
A man in the grip of a bad midlife crisis.
He stops watching quiz shows he used to adore,
Says he finds Countdown a bit of a bore,
Starts list’ning to hip-hop, not Radio Four.
He buys what he wants and thinks, “Sod what the price is!”,
The man in the grip of a bad midlife crisis.
Though he acts like a fool, there’s no need for alarm.
Though he spouts cheesy chat-up lines, oozing with smarm,
Don’t judge him too harshly: he means no real harm.
He’s mad and he’s sad, but he’s basically nice, is
The man in the grip of a bad midlife crisis.