| There’s dark satanic mills and there’s green and pleasant hills
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| Could be riding through Lancashire with all it’s
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| Witchcraft dead industrial air
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| You can hear a melancholy desert song
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| And smell George Orwell as a funeral goes on There’s plenty with a license to prostitute
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| And room to develop the ultimate building
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| The air in here is dead industrial and so austere
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| The air round here smells of religion and Vauxies beer
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| We are this world we watch the sands drain from our hands
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| We’re naive but happy or so it seems
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| We’ve all seen the big red bus faces gazing expressionless
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| The breakfast joint to kill the beast helps sow the
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| Seed for all manner of dangerous things
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| Here it goes again as melancholy as the last one
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| And when you feel as dogmatic as the next
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| It’s time to read into what it is that you do The air in here is dead industrial and so austere
|
| The air round here smells of religion and Sunday dinner
|
| We are this world we watch the sands drain from our hands
|
| This is our world we are the waters that we learned to work
|
| You can hear a melancholy desert song
|
| And smell George Orwell as the funeral goes on There’s plenty with a license to prostitute
|
| And room to develop the ultimate building
|
| The air in here is dead industrial and so austere
|
| The air round here smells of religion and Vauxies beer
|
| We are this world the sand drains from our very hands
|
| We’re naive but happy or so it seems
|
| The air in here is dead industrial and so austere
|
| The atmosphere smells of religion and Vauxies beer
|
| This is our world we are the waters
|
| That learned to work you smell the others |