| Another suburban family morning
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| Grandmother screaming at the wall
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| We have to shout above the din of our Rice Crispies
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| We can’t hear anything at all
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| Mother chants her litany of boredom and frustration
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| But we know all her suicides are fake
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| Daddy only stares into the distance
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| There’s only so. |
| much heartache he can take
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| Many miles away
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| Something crawls from the slime
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| At the bottom of a dark Scottish lake
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| Another industrial ugly morning
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| The factory belches filth into the sky
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| He walks unhindered through the picket lines today
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| He doesn’t think to wonder why
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| The secretaries pout and preen like
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| cheap tarts in a red light street
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| But all he ever thinks to do is watch
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| And every single meeting with his so-called superior
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| Is a humiliating kick in the crotch
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| Many miles away
|
| Something crawls to the surface
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| Of a dark Scottish loch
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| Another working day has ended
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| Only the rush hour hell to face
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| Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes
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| Contestants in a suicidal race
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| Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance
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| He knows that something somewhere has to break
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| He sees the family home now looming in his headlights
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| The pain upstairs that makes his eyeballs ache
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| Many miles away
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| There’s a shadow on the door
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| Of a cottage on the shore
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| Of a dark Scottish lake
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| Many miles away, many miles away |