Welcome to my nightmare
Welcome to my show trial

I could've been a traitor
I could've been a tailor
I could've been a waiter
I could've been a failure

I chose to be a writer
Every writer is a traitor
So here I am

Call me Pam
Call me Stan
Call me Gran

It's taking place in Imation with no written constitution
Let alone a guarantee of freedom of expression
While the customs men still rummage for smut through every incoming package
Like a parcel sent to Britain, my show trial was open and shut

Call me Gran
Call me Stan
Call me the man
Here I am
And the weather is getting clever, more clever than ever
And a spot is a spot, until it is a blot
I'm a poet, I know it, I'm a writer in the mirror
Every writer is a traitor, I'm getting sillier and sillier

Here I am
Call me Stan
Call me Gran
Call me the man

Call me Anne
Call me Stan
Call me Gran
Call me the man
But here I am

I'm feeling poorly, before the jury
They're going to smoke a cigarette in the carpark
That shouldn't matter, but I've just delivered my own defense
I was a spiritual witness, I talked about the death of the nation
I spoke about duty, class, money, art, orgasm and death
I said "I possess none of the above, except, perhaps, for orgasm and art"
Therefore, I had nothing to lose
I went on about ignoring the unwritten rules
Any suggestion that there's idiocy in ordinary life
Any hint that children might understand the facts about love
Any notion of normality might not be so ideal
What women think of men and what men really feel about women
In a penetrating x-ray of the soul, revelations of the secrets of professionals in guilds
These things are forbidden by tacit understanding
Call me Stan
Call me the man
Call me an idiot
But I spoke about you

Every writer is a traitor
And when I look in the mirror
I see a writer, therefore a traitor

Welcome to my show trial
Every owl is beguiled

Full fathom five my father lies
I am a writer
And so play the game
Be a good chap...