This be the verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to but they do
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one anothers throats

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself

A nursery rhyme for grown-ups, by Anne Clark
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As a sleeper in metropolis
You are insignificance
Dreams become entangled in the system

Environment moves over the sleeper:
Conditioned air
Conditions sedated breathing
The sensation of viscose sheets on naked flesh
Soft and warm
But lonesome in the blackened ocean of night

Confined in the helpless safety of desires and dreams
We fight our insignificance
The harder we fight
The higher the wall

Outside the cancerous city spreads
Like an illness
It's symptoms
In cars that cruise to inevitable destinations
Tailed by the silent spotlights
Of society created paranoia

No alternative could grow
Where love cannot take root
No shadows will replace
The warmth of your contact

Love is dead in metropolis
All contact through glove or partition
What a waste
The City -
A wasting disease