Interpret:

Crass

Album:

Christ - The Album

The grey man at the wheel 
Looks around to see if there's some skirt he can steal 
He doesn't really want to, he's just acting out a game 
And in their own fucked up way, most people do the same 
She cleans the bathroom mirror so she can line her eyes 
An expert in delusion, an artist in disguise 
She's not content with what she is, but she does the best she can 
But she doesn't do it for herself, she does it for her man 
And meanwhile he's out hunting, this master of the hunt 
Cruising down the high street in his endless search for cunt 
And the posters on the hoardings encourage his pursuit 
Glossy ads, where men are men, and women simply cute 
And the men are in their motorcars and the men have nerves of steel 
And they dreams of charlies angels as they firmly grip the wheel 
And they fantasise they're screwing in the back seat of the car 
Fantasise they're fucking with a real life movie star 
Fantasies to fill the gaps, to fill in every crack 
A whitewash of reality to hide the truth they lack. 
Now she's sponging down the cooker, on the surface all is fine 
His dinner's in the oven cos he's doing overtime 
She switches on the telly, it makes her feel secure 
Helps confirm her way of life, who needs to ask for more 
She sees the happy family unit, wife and hubby on the screen 
The perfect social unit, just like it's always been 
She's done the very best she can 
To love and honour and obey her man 
And if she should ever doubt the wisdom of her choice 
She can turn on the television for its moderating voice 
The ads and weekly series are the proof she needs 
That a life of boredom outweighs the deeds 
She sits up till the epilogue and goes to bed alone 
Content that when he's finished work he'll go straight home 
Meanwhile he downs another scotch, the lady has a coke 
And if he's asked about the wife he treats it as a joke 
Hear the one about the you-know-what 
He's got what it takes and he takes what he's got 
He took his woman and he'll take plenty more 
She took on a rat to keep the wolf from the door 
Then maybe in her loneliness she'll want to have a child 
Who'll be taught the games of adulthood, boxed and filed 
Another life to whitewash, to us a child is born 
To follow in its parents' tracks, the path's well worn 
Fantasy and falsehood, truth and lie 
The fucked up system they call reality 
The system needs its servants, each birth is one more 
Gently talk of freedom as they quietly lock the door 
Cos the system needs its servants if the system's going to run 
Needs its fodder for the workhouse, its targets for the gun.