Dragged up in a cesspit full of class'A'illusions.
The progress chart monitors, brilliant achievemets.
It's a world where technology easily outweighs bereavement.
The market remains flooded with drugs that only suppress,
Twenty types that all do the same thing,
Profit and screw all the rest.
Who drop dead in the queue, to receive operations,
As the government reveal their new million pound sensation.
Dancing at the policemen's ball again,
We sing our songs of disgust,
But they don't hear a thing with heads held up high
They raise a toast to progression, and a record breaking
Turnover tenth year in succession.
There stands a woman she has no face.
Her baby cries out dying arms outstretched for embrace.
They have no stake in the society that demands their respect.
A world with any hope is all they can expect