The boy is listening to those records from the past

He wants to make them last

For they make him feel alive

They are the voices of the faces on the wall

He listens to them all

Hangs on every little tale they tell

Knows them all and their life stories

Shares their pain and shares their glories



One day he even cut their names upon his skin

They mean that much to him

For them he'd take the test

His bedroom window opens to the evening air

The fox is in his lair

The volume of his system is full on

But the neighbours moan and the parents call

This angry noise is the muzak of the wastelands



Wastelands, the wastelands, wastelands



The boy is dressing in the fashion of the day

The kids all dress that way

You can tell them anywhere

The boy looks out and sees his friedns are waiting there

In the cold electric glare

Of those lamps that make you think that night is day

They drag their lusts into your sight

With shouts and screams they meet the night



They block your way in twos and fours

In uniforms from city stores

They're closing in, who knows the score

It won't be long before

A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands



Wastelands

Yes it won't be long before

A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands



Wastelands, the wastelands, wastelands, oh wastelands

Wastelands

Yes it won't be long before a martyr's blood is nourishing

The wastelands



A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands

Wastelands, oh wastelands



Words and music: M. Ure/D. Mitchell