Google Street View by Tim Minchin

It’s just like 1984... Have we no privacy no more? Can’t I have a little sleep outside the pub, say Or a vomit near a subway Or use a postbox as a crapper Without some omnipresent snapper Catching me with my pants around my knees In fully searchable three hundred and sixty degrees? I understand the neighbours might bawk When I hang my monthly sacrificial goat on my front porch I can handle their contempt, But I do not consent To my goat playing a part in your creepy global experiment It’s just like 1984... Have we no privacy no more? If I bumped into Jimmy as he leaves an adult store Carrying edible undies and a sex toy or four The chance of our interception Is a risk he’s acceptin But that don’t mean he wants his bag of butt-plugs up on the net. It’s just like 1984, well, Even the late Georgey Orwell Would surely think he was hearing a fiction If you tried to describe how far this shit’s gone Would presu