Morality Play In Three Acts — текст песни (Chumbawamba)

Act one, the smell of green leather, French polish, quite pristine, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle, not a crease, the silverware all clean. Exquisite chaussures grace marble floors, be upstanding, for men of yore. But wait, who`s this, sticky under the collar in Elsinore? Enter silent comedy geek with dynamite down his pants. Nervous, shuffling on his feet, leading a merry song and dance. A back seat driver of good moral fibre, holding up the light. He`s made his own bed, now he`s got to lie in it. Ha ha! Serves him right.
Act two, a new New England, watch the good seed grow. But who is this miss out-of-wedlock, with children of her own? Enter witch finder general, of melancholy humor, and irascible power, all dressed in goody-goody two shoes, pulling the heads of flowers. `Let this be,` said he, `a lesson, your dirty linen is your own reflection.` Said I, `Somehow it just doesn`t wash, away with your petty inquisition. In the vernacular, most unkind sir, fuck with me and you will see the flesh and blood and bone, the black eye of thine enemy.` Dance, dance.
Act three, `I am the lord of the dance,` said he. John the Baptist, dripping wet, playing sir politick-would-be. Backslapping, backsliding, back to basic instincs, backfiring. By your own choice you`re on a hiding to nothing, I ask you which is more comforting? The thought that I am bad seed, gone to seed, turned sour by TV sex and violence. Or even worse, am I unleashed by my own volition to do you ill? `Condemn a little more, understand a little less.` Oh sad sir, thou jest! Ha ha! I am Prometheus, prepare thee to meet thy nemesis.