The Word for the Clear-Vision Effort (Wank)

Lyrics

Yorkshire, 1978.
The King's Arms. Smelled of wet coats and disappointment.
Every table sticky with the ghost of a spilled pint.
Old Man Hemlock was complaining about his Morris Minor.
Third time the carburettor'd gone.
"Spent all afternoon on it," he says, staring into his ale.
"All afternoon. For nothing."
He shakes his head.
"A proper... right bloody..."
He searched for the word. We all knew which one he'd land on.
It's the word for an effort that sees its own end.
The clearest vision you can have.
When you're polishing a cannonball for a ship that's already sunk.
It's not rude. It's just true.
The honest accounting of a wasted hour.
That's a wank. Plain and simple.
And in the corner, quiet as a church mouse...
was Mrs. Patterson. Visiting her sister in Leeds.
We all sort of held our breath.
Thought Old Man Hemlock had put his foot in it.
A lady present, you see.
He finally said it, under his breath.
"A right wank of a job."
The room went quiet. Just the tick of the clock.
It's the word for an effort that sees its own end.
The clearest vision you can have.
When you're polishing a cannonball for a ship that's already sunk.
It's not rude. It's just true.
The honest accounting of a wasted hour.
That's a wank. Plain and simple.
Mrs. Patterson, she just looked up from her barley water.
Not a flicker of a flinch.
She raised her glass to Hemlock.
"Yorkshire lass, me," she said, clear as a bell.
"I've seen worse. And I've heard worse."
Then she took a sip.
"My nephew calls it a 'veritable wankfest' when his band plays poorly."
We all just... stared.
Old Man Hemlock bought her another barley water after that.
The word hung in the air.
Not dirty.
Just... clean.
Like a well-wiped slate.