The grey man at the wheel
looks around to see if thereand's some skirt he can steal
he doesnand't really want to, heand's just acting out a game
and in their own fucked up way, most people do the same
she cleans the bathroom mirror so she can line her eyes
an expert in delusion, an artist in disguise
sheand's not content with what she is, but she does the best she can
but she doesnand't do it for herself, she does it for her man
and meanwhile heand's out hunting, this master of the hunt
cruising down the high street in his endless search for cunt
and the posters on the hoardings encourage his pursuit
glossy ads, where men are men, and women simply cute
and the men are in their motorcars and the men have nerves of steel
and they dreams of charlies angels as they firmly grip the wheel
and they fantasise theyand're screwing in the back seat of the car
fantasise theyand're fucking with a real life movie star
fantasies to fill the gaps, to fill in every crack
a whitewash of reality to hide the truth they lack.
now sheand's sponging down the cooker, on the surface all is fine
his dinnerand's in the oven cos heand's doing overtime
she switches on the telly, it makes her feel secure
helps confirm her way of life, who needs to ask for more
she sees the happy family unit, wife and hubby on the screen
the perfect social unit, just like itand's always been
sheand's done the very best she can
to love and honour and obey her man
and if she should ever doubt the wisdom of her choice
she can turn on the television for its moderating voice
the ads and weekly series are the proof she needs
that a life of boredom outweighs the deeds
she sits up till the epilogue and goes to bed alone
content that when heand's finished work heand'll go straight home
meanwhile he downs another scotch, the lady has a coke
and if heand's asked about the wife he treats it as a joke
andquot;hear the one about the you-know-whatandquot;
heand's got what it takes and he takes what heand's got
he took his woman and heand'll take plenty more
she took on a rat to keep the wolf from the door
then maybe in her loneliness sheand'll want to have a child
whoand'll be taught the games of adulthood, boxed and filed
another life to whitewash, to us a child is born
to follow in its parentsand' tracks, the pathand's well worn
fantasy and falsehood, truth and lie
the fucked up system they call reality
the system needs its servants, each birth is one more
gently talk of freedom as they quietly lock the door
cos the system needs its servants if the systemand's going to run
needs its fodder for the workhouse, its targets for the gun.
