The disk brakes drag

The Chequered Flag sweeps across the oil-slick track

The young man's home, dry as a bone

His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back

One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul

The taker of the day in winning has to say



Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive



The sunlight streaks through the curtain tracks

Touches the old man where he sleeps

The nurse brings up a cup of tea - two biscuits

And the morning paper mystery

The hard road's end, the white God's send is nearer everyday

In dying the old man says



Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive



The still-born child can't feel the rain

As the Chequered Flag falls once again

The deaf composer completes his final score

He'll never hear his sweet encore

The Chequered Flag, the bull's red rag

The lemming-hearted running ever-faster to the shore singing



Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive