09-12-2014, 05:04 AM
On a vast estate of mock Tudor homes,
All over extended on their long term loans
That might last longer than their owners marriage,
There's a brand new Beamer in every garage.
Inside there is drinking
And maybe swinging
As men swap wives
With identical lives.
At nearby identical bars,
Behind the music of identical stars,
Men compare identical cars.
"My Beamer is bigger than yours,
And has the optional extra electric doors."
"Well my downstairs is slightly bigger
And I've paid for my wife's perfect figure."
And so it continues in the British Tradition
Of suburban rivalry and competition.
Until Monday morning at the usual hour
After the usual breakfast and the usual shower
And the usual Prozac to muffle the pain
They cram themselves on the usual train.
The suburban guerillas are marching to war,
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of ........business?
To the same old desk with the same old phone
And the same old people having the same old moan
And the same old grovelling to the same old boss
And the same old memos about profit and loss
And the same old dream to reach the top
Before the same old sandwich from the same old shop.
Till the kids they hardly met leave home
And they're left bereft and all alone
In a sham of a marriage with a wife they hardly knew
With a perfect figure they cannot screw.
Then after a life of dreams being crushed
Under the carpet they're eventually brushed.
"It's for your own good." They might well say,
Before they're shoved in a home to rot away.
They'll end their days maybe weaving a basket
Before they all end up in a mock Tudor casket
All over extended on their long term loans
That might last longer than their owners marriage,
There's a brand new Beamer in every garage.
Inside there is drinking
And maybe swinging
As men swap wives
With identical lives.
At nearby identical bars,
Behind the music of identical stars,
Men compare identical cars.
"My Beamer is bigger than yours,
And has the optional extra electric doors."
"Well my downstairs is slightly bigger
And I've paid for my wife's perfect figure."
And so it continues in the British Tradition
Of suburban rivalry and competition.
Until Monday morning at the usual hour
After the usual breakfast and the usual shower
And the usual Prozac to muffle the pain
They cram themselves on the usual train.
The suburban guerillas are marching to war,
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of ........business?
To the same old desk with the same old phone
And the same old people having the same old moan
And the same old grovelling to the same old boss
And the same old memos about profit and loss
And the same old dream to reach the top
Before the same old sandwich from the same old shop.
Till the kids they hardly met leave home
And they're left bereft and all alone
In a sham of a marriage with a wife they hardly knew
With a perfect figure they cannot screw.
Then after a life of dreams being crushed
Under the carpet they're eventually brushed.
"It's for your own good." They might well say,
Before they're shoved in a home to rot away.
They'll end their days maybe weaving a basket
Before they all end up in a mock Tudor casket