(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.