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