The grey man at the wheel
 Looks around to see if there's some skirt he can steal
 He doesn't really want to, he's just acting out a game
 And in their own [bad word] 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
 She's not content with what she is, but she does the best she can
 But she doesn't do it for herself, she does it for her man
 And meanwhile he's out hunting, this master of the hunt
 [bad word] down the high street in his endless search for [bad word]  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 they're [bad word] in the back seat of the car
 Fantasise they're [bad word] with a real life movie star
 Fantasies to fill the gaps, to fill in every crack
 whitewash of reality to hide the [bad word] they lack.
 Now she's sponging down the cooker, on the surface all is fine
 His dinner's in the oven cos he'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 it's always been
 She'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 he's finished work he'll go straight home
 Meanwhile he downs another scotch, the lady has a coke
 And if he's asked about the wife he treats it as a joke
 "Hear the one about the you-know-what"
 He's got what it takes and he takes what he's got
 He took his woman and he'll take plenty more
 She took on a rat to keep the wolf from the door
 Then maybe in her loneliness she'll want to have a child
 Who'll be taught the games of adulthood, boxed and filed
 Another life to whitewash, to us a child is born
 To follow in its parents' tracks, the path's well worn
 Fantasy and falsehood, [bad word] and lie
 The [bad word] 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 system's going [bad word]  Needs its fodder for the workhouse, its targets for the gun.