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 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/ She s not content with what she is, but she does it for her man/ And meanwhile he 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 dream of Charlies Angels as they firmly grip the wheel/ And they fantasise they re fucking with a real life movie star/ Fantasise to fill the gaps, to fill in every crack/ A whitewash on reality to hide the truth 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, 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 to 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, truth and lie/ The fucked up system they call reality/The system needs its servants, each birth is one more/ They'll gently talk of freedom as they quietly lock the door/ 'Cos the system needs its servants if the system's going to run/ Needs its fodder for the workhouse, its targets for the gun.