Lyrics

I saw you at reception
British cliched tourist desk
White socks, Birkenstocks
And some junk on a carabiner
I see you again later
And I shamefully recoil from your presence
Maybe it’s just that I’m envious
Of your complete lack of self-awareness
(no it’s not that…honestly, it’s not that)
I spot you in the evening
Ticking the sights off in your little book
And planning the next day’s excursion
It’s like a military exercise
Never once round the pool
Laughing with a margherita in your hand
A constant round of rep-sanctioned visits
Ticking ‘em off in that little book
Is this your holiday?
It makes no sense to me
Is this your holiday?
It looks like work to me
Yeah, of course I do a bit of tourist stuff
But then I go where the locals go
I speak to the people, have some fun with ‘em
Get the spirit of the place; the feel y’know
Next day? Maybe some pool time
Helps me work through my hangover and get my shit together
A swim, a good book, a pina colada
And dinner with my new local friends tonight, alright?
Is this your holiday?
It makes no sense to me
Is this your holiday?
Cos It looks like work to me
And I guess if you’re happy
It’s no business of mine
And I guess if you’re happy
You could show it some time
Sometimes I watch you and wonder
Just what do you do when you’re back home
Is your whole life just a list to be ticked
With that stubby and emphatic pen?
Or maybe you’re swingers
Or chaotic crackheads craving two weeks of tedious structure
But here you go, on the clock again
Boxes to eat and a hungry pen
Is this your holiday?
It makes no sense to me
Is this your holiday?
Cos It looks like work to me
Is this your holiday?
It makes no sense to me
Is this your holiday?
Cos It looks like work to me
looks like work to me
It looks like work to me
It looks like work to me
It looks like work to me