Luyện nghe bài hát Reality Whitewash

The man at the wheel
Looks around to see if there's some he can steal
He doesn't want to, he's just acting out a game
In their own fucked up way, people do the same
She cleans the mirror
So she can line her
An expert in delusion, an in disguise
She's not content with what she is, but she does the she can
do it for herself, she does it for her man
And meanwhile he's out hunting, this master of the
Cruising down the high street in his endless search for
And the posters on the hoardings encourage his
Glossy ads, where men are men, and women simply
And the men are in motorcars and the men have nerves of steel
And they dreams of Charlies Angels as they firmly the wheel
And they fantasise screwing in the back seat of the car
Fantasise they're fucking with a life movie star
Fantasies to the gaps, to fill in every crack
A on reality to hide the truth they lack
Now sponging down the cooker, on the surface all is fine
His dinner's in the oven cos he's doing
She on the telly, it makes her feel secure
Helps confirm her way of life, who to ask for more
She sees the family unit, wife and hubby on the screen
The perfect social unit, just like always been
She's done the very she can
To love and and obey her man
And if she should ever the wisdom of her choice
She can turn on the television for its moderating
The ads and weekly series are the she needs
That a life of outweighs the deeds
She sits up the epilogue and goes to bed alone
that when he's finished work he'll go straight home
Meanwhile he has scotch, the lady has a coke
If he's asked about the wife he it as a joke
"Hear the one the you-know-what"
got what it takes and he takes what he's got
He his woman and he'll take plenty more
She on a rat to keep the wolf from the door
Then maybe in her she'll want to have a child
Who'll be taught the games of adulthood, boxed and
Another to whitewash, to us a child is born
To follow in its parents' tracks, the path's well
and falsehood, truth and lie
The fucked up system call reality
They system needs its servants, each birth is one
Gently talk of as they quietly lock the door
Cos the needs its servants if the system's going to run
Fodder for the workhouse, for the gun