Bread and Circuses

It's time to celebrate, to come out and play We've been counting down the days, this weekend we've got a bank holiday! We're as sick with expectation as we are with what we're escaping Lock up the house, load up the car We've twenty-four hours to spend in a goddamn theme park We are so grateful for our new state-funded stately pleasure dome We just commute from one end of the conveyor belt to the other Shock and awe and an over-priced gift-shop You didn't have fun if you didn't buy the t-shirt Paying through the nose so you can prick-tease your animal instincts Art starts to imitate life in the factory The factory's a prison, so art is seen to atrophy All our days off in front of the TV instead of a stock screen We just commute from one end of the conveyor belt to the other Oh, the kids who would've led the unions in the past now grow up staying silent in darkened cinemas If every hour that I have spent stuck in a circus was spent learning a language I'd have so much more to say And if every penny that I have spent on processed bread was spent on growing my own food My skin wouldn't look so grey Work and rest and play safe in the knowledge that this is the only way The hand that feeds chooses the menu, but I'm a fussy eater Work rest and decay One commodity a day will keep subversive daydreams away