(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.