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We were the orphans of suburban slums |
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Raised by retail clerks and food court bums |
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Our parents were away under fluorescent suns to give us what they never had |
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We were the children of the broken glass where the parking lots yield to yellow grass |
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We lodged our broomsticks in the pavement cracks and we flew our scarlet flags |
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And we wrapped rebellion's arms around our waists |
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And we held our hearts out for the world to taste |
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And injustice was meant for our hands to erase |
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And you know we had a lot of work to do |
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We are the siblings of an endless war, which our elders wage on distant shores |
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We whined and kicked and screamed upon the kitchen floor and we threatened to run away |
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We are the children of the hourglass; our ambitions fell like grains of sand |
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We waited for the echoes of our protest chants so we could hear our own decay |
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We sang through riot barricades |
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And our voices bled, they bled onto the tape |
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We can hear it when those records play |
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And we know it's the sound of our own decay |
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It's the sound of our decay |
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It's the sound of our decay |
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It's the sound of our decay |
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And we pulled rebellion's arms from round our waists |
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And we hid our hearts to shield them from disgrace |
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And injustice laughed aloud and rubbed it in our face |
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So you know we've got a lot of work to do |
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We've got a lot of work to do |
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We've got a lot of work to do |
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We've got a lot of work to do |
