In the master’s house
they know how to have a good time
and still make it seem to those outside
that they’re as broken-down as the rest of us 

In the master’s house
they’ve got the know-how
that lets them kick up their heels
with the curtains closed

In the master’s house
all the pillows in the guest house
are filled with ultra-soft down
and lined with shattered Baccarat crystal

The master’s house is divided
There are wings for each of the children
The children keep their rooms slum-messy
All linked by corridors of marble

In the master’s house
There are a lot of doors that open out
But only a few that open in
The signs on those doors read “This Way Out”

In the master’s house they have televisions
Computers and phones and music on demand
Our music, our computers, our blessed wide screens
Everything we make they embrace and sell back

When the prodigal comes home to the master’s house
Nothing is slaughtered for the welcome feast
Nothing’s laid before him for his humble approval
Except a bill and a piece of cake

In the master’s house the halls echo and the walls stand pat
Outside the house crowds gather
to see the inside and measure themselves for the fit
in case one day they master themselves and move in