Lyrics

He’s in tax exile in the south of France
In Prada alligator shoes and cashmere sultan pants
He’s cruisin' for a bruisin' in Kuala Lumpur
He was a roadie once for Motörhead except when they toured
He’ll play a mean Moog Mother in the second set
Then he do the Watusi
And hop a plane to Marrakech

He’s buying up the cribs in Cabrini Green
He can read Sanskrit, he just don't know what it means
If it’s not too tough he'll try the Salisbury Steak
He got a tattoo of the bar code on Little Debbie Snack Cakes
He’s a real go-getter, comb his hair with nunchucks
When he wakes up in your arms
Just call him "punk deluxe"

"Fool around and find out" is his scientific method
He's all hat and no cattle and he's always lightheaded
The guys wanna to beat him up
The girls wanna to be him
There's a little funk in everything
That’s how the night gets in
He won’t do the math and couldn’t tell you why
A little light on the details
He's more a Big Picture Guy

She roll in with Pedro’s Cousins with the sweet hookups
She drink Veuve Clicquot from red Solo cups
She thought she'd take up smoking if you wanna bum her one
She'll let you drive her Maserati while she runs the guns
Don't let her hold your beer if you expect to get it back
But you can meet her in the basement where she runs a real racket

She got a mail order business
And she could be interested
To explore your opportunities and make a few investments
Her public image is unlimited
She made the deposits
She'll let you take what you want
From the office supply closet
Around here the wind don't blow, it sucks
She throw a fist in the air and declare it punk deluxe

She'll lie about the size to your mother's face
She's got some fascinating theories about time and space
Problems with your engine?
She'll pop the hood and take a look
Her aura is a waveform
Once she got you on the hook
She roll into the casino
Drop a bag on thirteen
Before you’re back from the buffet she went and split the scene

Need to overthrow a dictator?
She's got the connections
She'll unfold her cosmic map
Send you in every direction
She owns a drinking pub with a music problem
Where the gays and girlie pops all do a Jagerbomb
And if you ever need to fix that fool who bounced you on his knee
She's got a guy in Jersey who’ll do it for gas money

How do the Two Whatevers make a Punk Deluxe?
Take his circus and his monkeys and her Cucinelli tux
Two Whatevers get together and it's Punk Deluxe
You'll see them in your dreams
Close your eyes and pucker up
They order caviar on nachos
Two Whatevers, that folk-funk-pop-punk-shoegaze-newwave-hiphop-blues-rock band from Chicago