Some kind of order is what we're after

The sound of truth doesn't matter any more,

happy poor

There is a trick some kind of lure

No means of knowing sure anymore,

happy poor



There's only me and some of you

Everyday we lose a few planned phrases

that keep us cool

A pair of friends we have to eat

You and I will always be chasing

a carrot with bloody feet



I'm sick and tired of all the people

Don't you know there are no equals anywhere,

never were

Stop think for a second

Don't ask dumb questions anymore,

happy poor