And the bloodstains of the human race,
lie smeared upon your smiling face.
And the remains of the working man,
are drip, drip, dripping from your soft clean hands.
As you sit in your seat of power,
safe from the pleading fools.
Every headline becomes a transparent lie,
as you discreetly bend the rules.
On the battlefields of England hearts are broken,
and souls of working men are shattered.
You'll look back one day and politely say,
that murder without reason never mattered.
But the turning point must come one day,
when everyone claims unemployment pay.
When the working man becomes a thing of the past,
and the strike of '84 was the very last.
When the police are armed, and everyone walks, in straight, straight, lines.
No doubt you'll get out while the going's good,
after washing your hands of the working man's blood.
But when the British people wake up,
before all their thoughts are dead.
They'll realise the need to pull the trigger,
and watch as the the bullet shatters your head.