He's the guru of the city
No one told the city councilors

I know, you can tell me again
I've got my mobile phone, it's full of silicon chips
No one likes a smart arse
But I've seen a pattern emerge, I will race you up the hill

Where the boy who made records
Out of postcard messages
And flowering cherries rain on kids like you

Look twice at the kid with the crimped
And overheated hair, they ran a book on his looks
Odds on was the noble pose
And the denim hard riff of the Irish Troubadour

But the boy came from nowhere
To steal the hearts
From lassies in the lavies of the club tonight