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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