She sorts out her hair at the washroom of preston services
Dries her hands under a notice that says
Have you seen this child?
And she nurses her tea for one hour in the cafeteria
Watching the truck drivers
blind their fried eggs with the cutlery

And English murder it's all over her face
Just waiting until the right time the wrong lay-by
There'll be a photograph
With a bad 1970's fringe and a look of uncertainty
Years later you'll know the name
but not where you know it from

And they've emptied the terraced row
with compulsory purchases
Reasoning that they'd make more
from the ground with the people gone
And so he shuffles the half a mile
to the nearest post office
When lads push into the queue
he pretends he's not noticed them

And English murder it's all over his face
A low enough cold snap a high enough gas bill
You'll skim the epitaphs
And you'll possibly notice his name
like somebody's you knew from school
There'll be an off the peg verse
where sad has been rhymed with dad

And the houses in which they've invested their city bonuses
Have increased the property prices
and therefore the homelessness
The scabby grey anti climb paint
and withdrawn amenities
In case socialising promotes anti social behaviour

And English murder it's all over the place
The bunches of flowers in pedestrian precincts
Your average sociopath at least kills
With a hammer or brick not with greed and incompetence
And after two or three years they'll express remorse