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Fatima Mansions - The Door-to-door Inspector Lyrics

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The door-to-door inspector, his knuckles bare and white,

Is rapping on your window

cause he knows youre hiding here tonight

Hes travelled from the city to your country slum

Under rain and black clouds

And the burnt-out silver sun

Hell drop you where you stand

Lift the roof with his bare hands

And hand you down his just demands

As you huddle in your tiny corner

The door-to-door inspector now sits to eat his lunch

He scowls at last weeks paper

In the workers cafe, hushed

You made your choice whan mocking the ways of true grown men

Now may your woman-love protect you

As you face this grevious punishment youve earned

Hell drop you where you stand

Then journey home to wash those hands

And to his bed hell trembling go

Passion not spent, a man alone

(with his hand)

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