You see them on the street,

See them on the beach,

See them in the magazines-

Fucked-up clothes,

Fucked-up hair,

Second-hand and ugly jeans

Tired and dirty pidgeons,

In tired and dirty rags,

Grey and ashamed

Placid and tame,

Worn down by their bleeding hearts.

Their bleeding hearts.

You hear them in the clubs,

Hear them on the bus,

Hear them on the radio-

Saying "Maybe I'm this,

Maybe I'm that,

I'll tell you what, I just don't know."

Hear them coo like pigeons,

Never saying what they think,

Everyone's friend, afraid to offend,

Leave them up to me, son.

Here I am,

You know my name,

Here I am,

They call me Peacock.

I've come to watch the pigeons fail-

Behold my crest,

And see my Peacock's tail.

My Peacock's tail.

You'll see me at the bar,

See me in the car,

See me at the mirror here,

Checking my reflection,

Fix it to perfection,

Stepping out in all the gear-

I know how to look good,

I know how to dress;

Dolce and Gabbana

Ralph Lauren and Prada

Gucci and the rest, son.

Here I am,

You know my name,

Here I am,

They call me Peacock.

I've come to watch the pigeons fail-

Behold my crest,

Behold my Peacock's tail.

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