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)