Walk up to failure
Walk up to regret
Walk up to a place you'll never forget
Past the pregnant guard
The red paradise of dreams and scars
Leg scars, arm scars, stomach scars lead by far
The mark of the old country's stars
The old cliche exploitation blues
The offers no young hungry things could refuse
“Welcome to hell”, she may as well say
As you walk up, walk up
You walk up to love on your lunch break
Walk up, walk up
Walk up to see God, to see sweet Jane
You still smell her snatch
As you trawl the accounts
Flip through the company books
You can say you rode the coattails of blind chance
I know you itch for romance
Another lonely executive cunt
The kind that only knows how to pay to touch
In the boardroom
Your fish fingers shake hands with the top flight men
Check your balls for lumps once they've left
What's that itch? Is that new?
Is that working as it's supposed to?
Am I alive?
Is she sleeping with her eyes open?
There's a place for your briefcase
But watch out for the wandering hands
To see God, to see sweet Jane
To pay for a new name
For love on your lunch break
"Do you think on how these pretty young things just get by on the prick?"
You are asked, as you both walk past
You feign indifference and say, “I've got no idea"
When the favourite catches your eye
She stays quiet, you exhale relief
Humiliation is almost complete
Chalk it up to blind fate
Tomorrow you're back for love on your lunch break
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