Sappy english style

In a dirty bedroom somewhere in London
it must've been in the dodgy end
a greasy bloke stole my art.
In his velvet shirt and dirty skirt
he strolls through the streets of London.
Stealing identities. Stealing lives.
He's not me, he's not you, he's everyone we know.

Sure he loves all and sundry, but he's repelled by his own shadow
as you might've guessed.
I know what he really loves me for
my sappy english style, my foolish art that cost no money.
God! People are strange.