| I was the last of the window-cleaners
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| I was sacrificed as such
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| When they singled out the ring-leaders
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| They said I’d seen too much
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| But I only saw what the butler did
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| The chambermaid also
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| I only saw how the other half lived
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| I just washed their windows
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| Maybe up my ladder I got ideas above my station
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| Seldom if ever had a working man had a higher education
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| I learned to value clarity
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| And that knowledge is a two-way thing
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| That when windows attain transparency
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| Working men get a good look in
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| But times are bad for window-cleaners
|
| Worse than the 1930s
|
| If it’s not cowboys and amateurs
|
| Who don’t know where the dirt is
|
| It’s our most powerful customers
|
| Who’ll wipe us out eventually
|
| They’ve lost the taste for clarity
|
| In the late 20th century
|
| They took away our permits
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| And imposed a window tax
|
| People became like hermits
|
| Sitting in their pitch black flats
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| And though we remained intransigent
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| And our pride in the work lived on
|
| There was a series of mysterious accidents
|
| And we died off one by one
|
| I was the last of the window-cleaners
|
| After the union was smashed
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| They found the corpses of the other ring leaders
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| Their fingers had been crushed
|
| I received anonymous letters threatening attack
|
| They struck at the Limehouse dock
|
| Up drew a horse-drawn hackney cab
|
| It was well past twelve o’clock
|
| Out came a man with a lantern
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| Saying he’d come to light me to bed
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| Saying something to do with a chopper
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| And something to do with my head
|
| But I wasn’t listening carefully
|
| There were other things on my mind
|
| The failure of the union
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| The future of mankind
|
| He spread his frock coat flat on the quay
|
| And began positioning me there
|
| Laid me back almost tenderly and flourished a butcher’s cleaver
|
| I shouted past him into the dark 'We're prepared to make concessions'
|
| But the blade he twisted in my heart
|
| Ended my profession
|
| But times are bad for window-cleaners
|
| Worse than the 1930s
|
| If it’s not cowboys and amateurs
|
| Who don’t know where the dirt is
|
| It’s our most powerful customers
|
| Who’ll wipe us out eventually
|
| They’ve lost the taste for clarity
|
| In the late 20th century |