The door-to-door inspector, his knuckles bare and white,
Is rapping on your window
cause he knows youre hiding here tonight
Hes travelled from the city to your country slum
Under rain and black clouds
And the burnt-out silver sun

Hell drop you where you stand
Lift the roof with his bare hands
And hand you down his just demands
As you huddle in your tiny corner

The door-to-door inspector now sits to eat his lunch
He scowls at last weeks paper
In the workers cafe, hushed
You made your choice whan mocking the ways of true grown men
Now may your woman-love protect you
As you face this grevious punishment youve earned

Hell drop you where you stand
Then journey home to wash those hands
And to his bed hell trembling go
Passion not spent, a man alone
(with his hand)