Now conceptual and themed
Once ancient underground courtyards sinking out of sight
Play your king if theres not
A grey hair on his head and not a sole grey cell in it
The clientele have gone downhill
Punters complain as you brush past
So glad they made this bank a bar
Careful who you look in the eye
The meathead anthem's turned up high
They made the Post Office a pub
Divorcee queen lends a hand
When they fall in love, they're in love for a night
The gargled diction fails
Then they play like reverends and scratch their backs against the concrete
Those people won't hold open doors
Politeness they seem to deplore
They should make this library a wine bar
Jobseekers is there to mis-spend
Slumped on the altar like bookends
Let's pray they make this church a club