Verse 1
I wore my sackcloth tailored,
with a crimson silk cravat,
I preached memento mori
from a chaise longue where I sat.
I kissed the ring of reason,
then I genuflected doubt,
I kept my conscience hidden
where the cocktails don’t run out.
Pre-Chorus
Inter alia, darling,
we are saints with dirty hands,
half cathedral, half casino,
half the truth in contraband.
Chorus
Nil admirari — marvel at nothing,
raise one eyebrow, let it pass.
The age is made of gilded plastic,
broken glass and looking-glass.
Nil admirari — sigh like Caesar,
smile like Judas at the bar.
Everything is so damn modern,
everything’s antique so far.
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Verse 2
I’m an anchorite at dinner,
I’m a libertine at prayer,
I believe in full disclosure
when there’s no one standing there.
I adore the common people
from a balcony in Rome,
I reject all worldly honours
when the driver takes me home.
Pre-Chorus
In vino veritas, perhaps,
but truth is cheaper by the case,
and virtue wears a velvet mask
over vice’s lovely face.
Chorus
Nil admirari — marvel at nothing,
let the trumpets play off-key.
We are all post-revolution,
waiting for the next decree.
Nil admirari — kiss the future,
curse the screen and love the glow.
Every prophet needs a sponsor,
every saint a little show.
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Bridge
Sic transit gloria mundi,
said the girl in silver boots.
Carpe diem, said the banker,
shorting everyone’s pursuits.
Alea iacta est, boys,
but the dice were always loaded.
Quid pro quo, my little angels,
nothing blooms unless corroded.
Verse 3
I am flesh among the circuits,
I am code in evening dress,
I’m a monk of contradiction
with a taste for excess.
I deny the need for glamour
in a cloud of myrrh and smoke,
I announce the death of culture
with a very cultured joke.
Final Chorus
Nil admirari — marvel at nothing,
all the gods have gone freelance.
Wear despair as couture armour,
take decadence out to dance.
Nil admirari — praise the ruins,
curse the builders, bless the flame.
We are bored of our damnation,
but we bought it just the same.
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Très vogue, n’est-ce pas?
Nil admirari.
Nil admirari.
