If the sons of company directors
an d judges' private daughters
Had to go to school in a slum school,
Had to herd into classrooms
With a view over slag heaps
Had to file through corridors
And play in a crackpot concrete
Buttons would be pressed,
Invisible fingers would mold
and advertising executives,
Had to live out their lives
blinded by smoke and a foul air of sewers
Rot on the wall and rats in the cellars,
had to bring up their children
in a wasteland of dead streets
where nothing would grow.
Buttons would be pressed,
Invisible fingers would mould
Now I'm not suggesting any
If you don't want to be buried alive
and rat traps and dead streets
Arranged to be democratically born
The son of a company director
Or a judge's fine and private daughter
And buttons will be pressed
Invisible fingers will mould