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 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 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 on 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 has another scotch, the lady has a coke 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 they 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 fodder for the workhouse, targets for the gun