There are misters
Corrupting victorian vistas
And I'm the kind of man who likes to see
From the top to the bottom of his streets (and from the bottom to the top)
Don't take it out on the buildings it wasn't the buildings fault
Don't take it out on the buildings it wasn't their fault
Why do you look so down?
You're king of this roundabout. with an asphalt crown
And there are plastinated bishops and priests
Who will pay to pretend to believe for a day
And it's a treat
And it's a novelty
Faith is the final fetish of these twenty something centuries
I'd been shaking the lonely hands our last local heroes
I had a vision of a perfect canyon
Cutting from capetown to grand bretagne
And the knowledge that built this town
Will see it returned to the ground
To the ground
And every year, without fail
It's LL bowen & Mrs. Greer
Here to teach me about
The inexistence of cla**
They come to deny they come to erase
A past, a story, an anchor
I listen intently and when they've finished I thank them
And when they've finished I say "thanks"
Early morning, profit warning
What do I do with all my dying money?
Identify my USP
And throw myself into the icy sea of questions unanswered
My actions are abstract, the words are my anchor
The words will be my anchor