Now conceptual and themed   Once ancient underground courtyards sinking out of sight   Play your king if theres not   A grey hair on his head and not a sole grey cell in it      The clientele have gone downhill   Punters complain as you brush past   So glad they made this bank a bar   Careful who you look in the eye   The meathead anthem’s turned up high   They made the Post Office a pub      Divorcee queen lends a hand   When they fall in love, they’re in love for a night   The gargled diction fails   Then they play like reverends and scratch their backs against the concrete      Those people won’t hold open doors   Politeness they seem to deplore   They should make this library a wine bar   Jobseekers is there to mis-spend   Slumped on the altar like bookends   Let’s pray they make this church a club