| Well you can go a bit nuts out here
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| Spending all day looking for your cigarettes or your glasses
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| Or plugged into high-minded conspiracy theories
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| About all the piano-playing cats
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| Trained by the government and uploaded by devious civil servants
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| To subdue your mind
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| I guess that’s why people say that musical pets
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| Are the new opiates of the masses
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| But just don’t forget
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| Nobody actually says that
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| And it’s true
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| The true oddballs are stationed in the market towns
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| And all you meet
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| Are ex-military personnel
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| With dark browsing histories
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| Or children’s entertainers
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| With questionable intentions
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| And all the village shops
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| And all the village shops are definitely manned by robots
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| So is this the kind of catharsis you were after?
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| Strange shapes appear in the mirror when you’re not there
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| And you can hear people’s skin crack at regular intervals
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| Oh, when the sun comes out
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| They’ve got your number
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| They’ll be seeing you
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| Better stay in from here on in
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| And sometimes when you close your eyes
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| There’s grinning Jimmy Saviles painted on your inner eyelids
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| Other times it’s Yoko Onos on treadmills
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| Stretching out into infinity
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| Or there’s Kermit the Frog doing up his flies
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| On the beach, on repeat
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| These things all reinforce the need
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| For a proper occupation
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| Find clipped toenails still growing near the basin
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| A little camera in the shape of a bit of eggshell in the bread bin
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| Surveillance wires disguised as bits of spaghetti
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| Down the side of the oven
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| Looks like the cleaner’s not working
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| Today the birds are flying unusually low to the ground
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| And the insects are flying unusually close to the clouds
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| There’s all sorts of inversions that you need to get your head around
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| Clerical workers are lurking in the long grass
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| With remote controls, dog shit bags and their sons
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| And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
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| And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
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| And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
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| Make some elderflower wine, or some sourdough
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| Well that’s the kind of thing you’re meant to do around here
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| Wrap it up in old brown paper and you can sell it for a fortune
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| To all the city weekenders
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| If only you didn’t have the weird feeling
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| That your arm is not your arm
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| That your arm is not your arm
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| And the strange plants growing in the outcrop near the village
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| Have been plagiarising your dreams
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| And everything’s conducted in hushed tones
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| In the market towns |