Palaces of Gold

If the sons of company directors

And the judges' private daughters

Had to go to school in a slum school

Dumped by some joker in a dank back alley

Had to herd into classrooms crammed with worry

With a view onto slag heaps and stagnant pools

Had to crowd down corridors grey with age

And play in a crackpot concrete cage

Buttons would be pressed

Rules would be broken

Strings would be pulled and magic words spoken

Invisible fingers would mould palaces of gold

If prime ministers and advertising executives

And royal personages and bank managers' wives

Had to live out their lives in dank rooms

Blinded by smoke and the foul air of sewers

Rot on the walls and rats in the cellars

In rows of dumb houses like mouldering tombs

Had to bring up their children and watch them grow

In a wasteland of dead streets where nothing will grow

Buttons would be pressed

Rules would be broken

Strings would be pulled and magic words spoken

Invisible fingers would mould palaces of gold

Now I'm not suggesting there's any kind of a plot

Everyone knows there's not

But you unborn generations might like to be warned

That if you don't want to be buried alive by slag heaps

Pitfalls and damp worlds and rat traps and dead streets

Arrange to be democratically born

The son of a company director

Or a judge's fine and private daughter

Buttons will be pressed

Rules will be broken

Strings will be pulled and magic words spoken

Invisible fingers will mould palaces of gold