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