Hold your head up to the gun of a million cathode ray tubes aired at your tiny skull.
God of ages, Lord of Time, mine is the right to be wrong.
Too many heroes stepping on too many toes, too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.
Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.
Jump up, look around, find yourself some fun. No sense in sitting there hating everyone.
Who would be a poor man, a beggar man, a thief, if he held a rich man in his hand?