Hot from the trader in heirlooms And knocked-off stock, The ornaments are posted to their stations Or marked down in wasted years. Already itís old hat. Someone says Bring on the clones But no-one laughs. Fake Rolexes measure the silence. Maybe you were there before In a previous life, Looking for a souvenir, something retro, Something thatís really you. Donít bother to show us. We are the guys Who sell this junk. We get to eat, You get the glory. Itís called business.