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Father mows the lawn and Mother peels potatoes |
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Grandma lays the table alone |
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And adjusts a photograph of the unknown soldier |
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In this Holy of Holies the Home |
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And from the TV an unwatched voice |
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Suggests the answer is to plant more trees |
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The scrawl on the wall says what about the workers |
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And the voice of the people says more salt please |
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Mother shakes her head and reads aloud from the newspaper |
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And Father puts another lock on the door |
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And reflects upon the violent times that we are living in |
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While chatting to the wife beater next door |
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If paradise to you is cheap beer and overtime |
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Home truths are easily missed |
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Something that every football fan knows |
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It only takes five fingers to form a fist |
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And when it rains here, it rains so hard |
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But never hard enough to wash away the sorrow |
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I'll trade my love today for a greater love tomorrow |
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The lonely child looks out and dreams of independence |
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From this family life sentence |
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Mother sees but does not read the peeling posters |
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And can't believe that there's a world to be won |
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But in the public schools and in the public houses |
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The Battle of Britian goes on |
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The constant promise of jam tomorrow |
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Is the New Breeds litany and verse |
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If it takes another war to fill the churches of England |
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Then the world the meek inherit, what will it be worth |
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Mother fights the tears and father, his sense of outrage |
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And attempts to justify the sacrifice |
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To pass their creed down to another generation |
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Anything for the quite life |
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In the Land of a Thousand Doses |
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Where nostalgia is the opium of the age |
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Our place in history is as clock watchers |
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Old timers, window shoppers |
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Father mows the lawn and Mother peels potatoes |
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[Incomprehensible] |
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And where's that photograph of the unknown soldier |
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In this Holy of Holies the Home |
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Father mows the lawn and Mother peels potatoes |
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Grandma [Incomprehensible] |
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And where's that photograph of the unknown soldier |
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In this Holy |
