(By Tracey Bryn & Martin Brett)







He's walking slowly - he is in no hurry



He is walking to the slaughter of the hell that's called routine



She arises tried - she is feeding on the famine of the



Fat that's called the housewife



Making sure that it's all clean







This is the game called playing house



We're all screamin', no one's getting out



This is the game called playing house







He's starving for a surprise, she is aching for a sign



That things are not quite as simple



As they seemed to be designed



Give me complication, give me freezing in the heat



Give me some new kind of rhythm



Give me some new kind of beat







Don't give me the game called playing house



We're all screaming, no one's getting out



Don't give me the game called playing house







Playing house, Playing house







Destroy all that's creative - give routine a friendly face



Just give everyone a rhythm, just give everyone a place



That is the game that we've been told that we will play



And if we play ot long enough, it's bound to surely go away.