| Another suburban family morning |
| Grandmother screaming at the wall |
| We have to shout above the din of our Rice Crispies |
| We can’t hear anything at all |
| Mother chants her litany of boredom and frustration |
| But we know all her suicides are fake |
| Daddy only stares into the distance |
| There’s only so much more that he can take |
| Many miles away |
| Something crawls from the slime |
| At the bottom of a dark Scottish lake |
| Another industrial ugly morning |
| The factory belches filth into the sky |
| He walks unhindered through the picket lines today |
| He doesn’t think to wonder why |
| The secretaries pout and preen like |
| cheap tarts in a red light street |
| But all he ever thinks to do is watch |
| And every single meeting with his so-called superior |
| Is a humiliating kick in the crotch |
| Many miles away |
| Something crawls to the surface |
| Of a dark Scottish loch |
| Another working day has ended |
| Only the rush hour hell to face |
| Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes |
| Contestants in a suicidal race |
| Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance |
| He knows that something somewhere has to break |
| He sees the family home now looming in his headlights |
| The pain upstairs that makes his eyeballs ache |
| Many miles away |
| There’s a shadow on the door |
| Of a cottage on the shore |
| Of a dark Scottish lake |
| Many miles away, many miles away |