In Country

Search in the hedgerows, and you'll find prizes
Discarded porno mags and dead cats in bags
And all of the neighbours are giving it daggers
There are weeping, open sores all around these uliginous moors

And everywhere there's hicks and drunks
And criminals and cunts
And all these terrible lies

See, everyone's family, but nobody's talking
You could choke on thwarted hopes and darkly-muttered oaths
And in behind curtains, old crones are lurking
Driven weird by these four walls and the son who never calls

And everywhere there's cranks and crooks
And devil dogs and kooks
And all these terrible lies

So meet them on Sunday, and they'll smile, pious
And they'll grip that book so tight
And they'll sing with all their might
But daddy's a drinker, and mummy's lobotomised
And the daughter's up the duff, and the son is just fucked up

And the battery farm's all chicken blood and folks up to no good
The trigger-happy farmers who would shoot you where you stood
The fiends who'd be at swingers' parties if they only could
And all these terrible lies
All these terrible lies
All these terrible lies