Crass

The grey man at the wheel
Looks around to see if there's some skirt he can steal
He doesn't really want to, he's just acting out a game
In their own fucked up way, most people do the same
She cleans the bathroom mirror
So she can line her eyes
An expert in delusion, an artist in disguise
She's not content with what she is, but she does the best she can
Doesn't do it for herself, she does it for her man
And meanwhile he's out hunting, this master of the hunt
Cruising down the high street in his endless search for cunt
And the posters on the hoardings encourage his pursuit
Glossy ads, where men are men, and women simply cute
And the men are in their motorcars and the men have nerves of steel
And they dreams of Charlies Angels as they firmly grip the wheel
And they fantasise they're screwing in the back seat of the car
Fantasise they're fucking with a real life movie star
Fantasies to fill the gaps, to fill in every crack
A whitewash on reality to hide the truth they lack
Now she's sponging down the cooker, on the surface all is fine
His dinner's in the oven cos he's doing overtime
She switches on the telly, it makes her feel secure
Helps confirm her way of life, who needs to ask for more
She sees the happy family unit, wife and hubby on the screen
The perfect social unit, just like it's always been