The door-to-door inspector, his knuckles bare and white,
is rapping on your window
'cause he knows you're hiding here tonight
He's travelled from the city to your country slum
under rain and black clouds
and the burnt-out silver sun
He'll 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 week's paper
in the worker's 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 you've earned
He'll drop you where you stand
then journey home to wash those hands
and to his bed he'll trembling go
Passion not spent, a man alone
(with his hand)
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