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)