The door-to-door inspector, his knuckles bare and white,
|
is rapping on your window
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'cause he knows you're hiding here tonight
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He's travelled from the city to your country slum
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under rain and black clouds
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and the burnt-out silver sun
|
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He'll drop you where you stand
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Lift the roof with his bare hands
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and hand you down his just demands
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as you huddle in your tiny corner
|
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The door-to-door inspector now sits to eat his lunch
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He scowls at last week's paper
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in the worker's cafe, hushed
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You made your choice whan mocking the ways of true grown men
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Now may your woman-love protect you
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as you face this grevious punishment you've earned
|
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He'll drop you where you stand
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then journey home to wash those hands
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and to his bed he'll trembling go
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Passion not spent, a man alone
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(with his hand)
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|
-----------------
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The Door-to-Door Inspector
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| The Fatima Mansions |
