Bread & 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