Come hither, comrades, with your six-packs of ale,
To sneer at our rulers and see how they fail;
On the lives of the rich pile a mountain of grief,
For its cuttin'`em
and guttin' `em
that bring us relief!
So fill up a glass,
For their ways shall soon pass;
When they're dead we'll remember their stink
and their gas!
John Kennedy's brains were red, so they say;
But what's their spilt blood when we're happy and gay?
I'd rather help slaughter the rich while I'm here,
Than be passive, hard-working - and dead half a year!
So comrades, let's kiss,
On their graves we shall piss;
In hell there's no bosses or time-clock like this!
Bill Graham, barbecued on electrical cables,
Is now in a bag on the autopsy table,
So fill up your glasses, drink, laugh all around
Better them dead in boxes than us under the ground!
Remember the past
And that crime is a blast,
Give 'em six feet of dirt - they're not likely to last!
In nights filled with riot and burning and shooting,
This city's been conquered by arson and looting!
Social unrest is sweeping the nation,
There's a pig-roast down at the old police station
So let's give a hand
To a mutinous band,
`Cause I'm merry
While I tarry
On top of The Man!