The soot-stained Bath-stone temples,

Stand neglected in our wake,

Chastened by tomorrow and,

Our technologic fate,

The gracious halls of marble,

Echo laughter to the wings,

As the fat-rat pockets all your cash,

And the magpies start to sing,


Never mind the pomp and grandeur,

Of Britannia on the waves,

Will this United Kingdom,

Ever find a way to pay-back,

All the leaches in the city,

And the Yankees from the war,

Quite possibly, we may become,

State number fifty-four ?


Now the docksideís standing empty,

And the men are on the dole,

Theyíre keeping us immobile,

To drive us into stores,

And thereís nowt for little Katie,

And her brother John to do,

The cats and dogs just sit and watch us,

In our concrete zoos,


Whilst the poor man on the corner,

With his plastic beggars pot,

Remains a vacant destitute,

Something that we threw up,

While the media and marketers,

Sell us crap that we donít need,

And we pay it off in credit,

And exacerbate their greed,


Calling for a revolution,

Shouting out across the land,

And babe, we need some kind of solution,

Though what I just donít understand,




So you call for an uprising,

In your revolutionistic throes,

I wonder if youíll stand up,

When it comes the time for us to go,

And the day we found our freedom,

Not a single soul did even see,

Too busy working night-shift,

Or immobilised in ecstasy,


And the rest of us were moaning,

About the weather once again,

Do you take sugar in your tea ?

And, look itís started to rain,

So we stare with our blank faces,

At our cold-eyed cathode friend,

And sit there in itís apathy,

Waiting for the world to end,


Calling for a revolution,

Singing out across the land,

We need to find some solution,

From where, I just canít understand.