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Song title:
Fatima Mansions - The Door-to-door Inspector
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216.73.216.158
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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