And after a while, you can work on points for style.
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,
So that when they turn their backs on you,
You'll get the chance to put the knife in.

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.
You know it's going to get harder, and harder and harder as you get older.
And in the end you'll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand,
Trust another sad old man,
All alone and dying of cancer.

And when you loose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sawn.
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone.
And it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around.
So have a good drown, as you go down alone,
Dragged down by the stone.

I gotta admit that I'm a little bit confused.
Sometimes it seems to me as if I'm just being used.
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.
If I don't stand my own ground, how can I find my own way out of this mage?

Deaf, dumb and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone's expendable and no-one has a real friend.
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner.
And everything's done under the sun,
And you believe at heart, everyone's a killer.

Who was born in a house full of pain.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told waht to do by the man.
Who was broken by the trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.

Bus stop rat bag, ha ha charade you are
You fucked up old hag, ha ha charade you are
You radiate cold shafts of broken glass.
You're nearly a good laugh,
Almost worth a quick grin
You like a feel of steel,
You're not stuff with a hat pin,
And good fun with a hand gun.
You're nearly a laugh,
You're nearly a laugh,
But you're really cry.

Hey you, Whitehouse,
Ha ha charade you are.
You house proud town mouse,
Ha ha charade you are
You're trying to keep our feelings off the street
You're nearly a real treat,
All tight lips and cold feet,
And do you feel abused?
...! ...! ...! ...!
You gotta stem the evil tide,
And keep it all on the inside,
Mary you're nearly a treat,
Mary you're nearly a treat
But you've really a cry.

What do you get for pretending the danger's not real.
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors, into the valley of steek.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is no bad dream.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shal not want
He makes me down to lie
Through pastures green he leads me the silent waters by.
With bright knives he releases my soul
He makes me to hang on hooks in high places.
He converts me to lamb cutlets,
For Lord, he have gread power, and great hunger
When comes the day we lowly ones,
Through quiet reflection, and great dedication,
Master the art of karate.
Lord, we shall rise up,
And then we'll make the buggers eyes water.

Bleating and bubbling I fell on his neck with a scream.
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully of obscurity into the dream.

Have you heard the knews?
The dogs are dead!
You better stay home
And do as you're told.
Get out of the road if you want to grow old.