Now conceptual and themednOnce ancient underground courtyards sinking out of sightnPlay your king if theres notnA grey hair on his head and not a sole grey cell in itnnThe clientele have gone downhillnPunters complain as you brush pastnSo glad they made this bank a barnCareful who you look in the eyenThe meathead anthem’s turned up highnThey made the Post Office a pubnnDivorcee queen lends a handnWhen they fall in love, they’re in love for a nightnThe gargled diction failsnThen they play like reverends and scratch their backs against the concretennThose people won’t hold open doorsnPoliteness they seem to deplorenThey should make this library a wine barnJobseekers is there to mis-spendnSlumped on the altar like bookendsnLet’s pray they make this church a club