You know Millfield Enterprises will use you
Recycle you like pieces of trash
For them you're the shit
On the bottom of their shoes
But without you, they'd never make cash
Oh they sell an English summer programme
Like English is the prize it's the goal
Of every parent and child
Who's ever dreamt wild
That for them the streets are paved with gold
Oh yes Millfield promises you everything
Oh yes they scoop the cream of the crop
For they have no scruples, they take Yen, Dime or Rubles
As long as the money goes to the top
Yes you've got to be in it to win it
And it helps if you come from right stock
No field hermit in their stella-biography
It's not geography or democracy but cock
Oh breed from the right family won't you?
Eugenics and racism here
Of course if you're black then they have your back
As long as you're not black and queer
Look, just listen they're a charity
Look how needy they are
With their seven tennis courts
With their car parks full of plush cars
But no the poor sods who work there
Are not the beneficiaries of fame or power
They just screen the nuts, plaster over the cuts
To raise up their Babylonian tower
Yet somewhere their rich bankers are sitting
Eating fine lamb in luxury
Laying on the bed of ill-gotten gains
Invested in their so called charity
If you ever need proof humans are greedy
Look no further than Street
Let your eyes rise up to the hill there
And see what they call making ends meet
These lowly managers are cowards
Because these people worship the dollar
They want nothing more
Than telly and a cure
They'll stand up for you like a jelly
Under pressure it's not that they crack
They just put all the work on you like a donkey
And expect you not to break your back
If you think you have value there believe me
They are about as trustworthy as a bag for life
Made out of the hair brains and screwball
Ideas that cause them to jack knife
If ever they had a personality they leave it at the door
Because they are just one of many
In factory for the Rich kids to get rich more
So let them live in their homesteads
In their stately palace's greed
Let them shave every penny of the salaries
Of their inferior breed
What measure is a man?
To what scale can you measure his worth?
A pound of his flesh on the balances
Is it worth the sound of his mirth?
Sell your soul at what cost?
Sell it and work for the devil
For there's nothing of God
In those unholy sods
He only lives in the poor and dishevelled
No comments:
Post a Comment