1. I’ve had a couple of rough weeks.
It’s probably evident by the state of my cufflinks.
I chip a chunk for my drink from the ice sculpture.
If nobody’s vulgar, you can’t perceive culture.
The taste of back-of-lady-hand lingers on my lips
While I wait for alcohol to make ’em keener on my quips.
Never seen so much good skin, teeth, and hair
In one place, it’s not beneath me to stare.
Some are born to rule, some are born to serve,
Some are born to gorge on a host’s hors d‘oeuvres.
There’s no law against a faux pas.
I’m taking more than my share of the goose foie gras.
I’m the grotesque parody of life of the party.
Asking everyone if we should form an oligarchy.
Suckers salt cinders and butter their dust.
I’m gonna sink my teeth deep into the upper crust.

Chorus: Too, too late
To consider saving face.
Too late to consider saving face.
I, don’t, don’t
Even feel the distaste.
I don’t even feel the distaste.
Don’t know why
I feel the need to make a scene.
Don’t know why I need to make a scene.
I am gauche
But I don’t know what it means.
I’m gauche but I don’t know what it means.

2. The details of my last-minute date hit a snag
’Cause she knew my reputation, thus I came stag.
I’m dealing with the clear-cut blunt truth
That I may well be downright uncouth.
I am not Miss Manners, I am The Mismannered.
Never more grateful for slipping standards.
I could fill a book with the etiquette I don’t know.
Disarm ’em all with the charm I won’t show.
Don’t care about the whereabouts of my invitation.
I’m used to the scowls and the indignation.
I’m falling in the fountain, brawling in the garden.
I couldn’t sound more false begging for your pardon.
How can you expect me to make an impression
If I linger in the wings out of simple discretion?
I will be the chief focus of your scorn ’til morning.
I will never not prefer being boorish to boring.

Chorus: Too, too late
To consider saving face.
Too late to consider saving face.
I, don’t, don’t
Even feel the distaste.
I don’t even feel the distaste.
Don’t know why
I feel the need to make a scene.
Don’t know why I need to make a scene.
I am gauche
But I don’t know what it means.
I’m gauche but I don’t know what it means.

3. I would need a boost to become lowbrow.
Tapped on the shoulder like, “Maybe you should go now.”
Upwardly stagnant, the opposite of proper.
Every misstep is even more potential gossip fodder.
Posture of a brute, the speech of a crude lout.
Feel like I might faint if I don’t let the rude out.
Ladies and gents, I haven’t got tact.
If you don’t wanna converse, then avoid eye contact.
I’m the spectator running wild on the field.
I’m the beaten man too oblivious to yield.
Every event, I’m carried home on my shield.
Rented tux in shreds, base pedigree revealed.
But for now, the string quartet keeps on playing.
Other guests clinging to the hope that I’m not staying.
I am though: a social burden we all bear.
Wild Boor: I’ve got gall to spare.

Chorus: Too, too late
To consider saving face.
Too late to consider saving face.
I, don’t, don’t
Even feel the distaste.
I don’t even feel the distaste.
Don’t know why
I feel the need to make a scene.
Don’t know why I need to make a scene.
I am gauche
But I don’t know what it means.
I’m gauche but I don’t know what it means.