Текст: Million Dead. Other. Bread And Circuses.

It's time to celebrate
To come out and play-
We've been counting down the days.
This weekend we've got a bank holiday!
We're as sick with expectation
As we are with what we're escaping.
Lock up the house, load up the car,
We've twnty-four hours to spend
In the goddamn theme park.
We are so grateful for our new
State funded stately pleasure dome
Shock and awe and
An over-priced gift-shop-
You didn't have fun if
You didn't buy the T-Shirt.
Paying through the nose so you can
Prick-tease your animal instincts.
Art starts to imitate life in the factory;
The factory's a prison,
So art is seen to atrophy-
All our days off in front of the TV
Instead of a stock screen
We just commute from one end of
The conveyor belt to the other.
Oh, the kids who would've led
The unions in the past
Now grow up staying silent in
Darkened cinemas.
If every hour that I have spent
Stuck in a circus
Was spent learning a language,.
I'd have so much more to say.
And if every penny that I have spent
On processed bread
Was spent on growing my own food,
My skin wouldn't look so grey.
Work and rest and play safe in the
Knowledge that there is no other way
The hand that feeds chooses the menu,
But I'm a fussy eater.
Work rest and decay.
Our commodity a day will
Keep subversive daydreams away.