The banker sits behind his desk
Full of his own importance
He talks to you as if you are
Something of no significance
He can call in your overdraft
And take your house away
He will treat you like a criminal
Because you cannot pay.
But at home in the evening,
(While your life is in a mess)
He relaxes in silk stockings
And a short, black cocktail dress


When you sign on at the welfare,
There's a lady working there
She's so full of compassion
That they call her Frigidaire.
She'll tear your claim up in your face.
She does not give a stuff
But on Friday night she's on the prowl
Looking for a bit of rough
She'll find some hairy-arsed fellow
Like so many nights before
and beg him have his way with her
And treat her like a whore


The politician lectures us
he talks about morality
Hard work and family values
And marital fidelity.
One law for us and one for him
It often is the case
That life forgives the indiscretions
Of those who win the race.
And when he visits Miss Flagella
(Just to relieve his stress)
He bravely takes his punishment
Wearing studded leather harness

 
And Pastor Penney, man of God
Used to preach in thundering voice
But now he's praying in his jail cell
Repenting sins involving choirboys
All these pillars of society
are no better than you and me
Underneath their thin facade
Are secret's that they'd rather hide
And they are not the only one's
Of that there is no doubt.
In all of lifes rich tapestry
There's a lot of it about

recorded for Criminal Records (UK) (c) Ian Thorpe, 2004
  

Is the turner prize shite