Lift up your head, lift up your head   Your room in this decade of eathquake and bile   awaits you like a stewardess's mortuary smile      You'll miss all the fun, you'll miss all the fun   A rich man turned pauper, his death marked [a sham]   I can't get back to see it, 'til you lift up your head      Me and mine are fools, me and mine are fools   say our elders who despise us, though we're no longer young   They're tired of our sneering, and we've blocked out their main street's sun      They're sleeping as we rise, one punch is drunk with pride   resides in [brutal face], sick from petrol smoke and [steak]   The few bohemians, with their too-white shopping wrists   confide in some crimson [page]   and pray to look cute in their squalor-dyed hair   Old age      Rolled out of here, is sun bright and clear   and we hold the fortune, in our cumulous   There's nothing else on earth that I will be part of   Why waste a lifetime on soil which won't bear fruit?   and why argue with gangsters who only smile and act mute?   If he pulls that trigger, as he says he must,   then to them, goes the last word [and then]   The sleep of the just, the sleep of the just, the sleep of the just      But that's never enough   But that's never, never enough