factory chimney cough yellow smoke 

trucks and trains go rumbling

throw down your key from your window high

your man's out drinking

neighbours thinking evil 

lead by the the lights of your electric fire

your grey slips falls around your feet

and across the sheet your nut brown curls go tumbling



we don't have long before he comes home from the bar

I'll be gone a week of sundays

meet me by the bronze horse or the clock tower

try to come Friday, Saturday maybe

don't cry now you'll freak the baby