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

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 the best she can

Doesn't do it for herself, 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 dreams of Charlies Angels as they firmly grip the wheel

And they fantasise they're screwing in the back seat of the car

Fantasise they're fucking with a real life movie star

Fantasies 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 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 has another scotch, the lady has a coke

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

They 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 to run

Fodder for the workhouse, targets for the gun