Lack-lustre vacuum magnetises the land,
scopeless material in ruthless demand,
concrete spectacle superficially grand,
divine animation buried in sand.
Chorus:
Well rise from the ashes of stagnation,
crystal warriors of damnation.
Nullified grafters manufactured from te womb,
out of the repro-clinic into household tomb.
Drag the nothing tiring through coal-dark underground,
drive the weels of iron round and round.

Repeat Chorus

Souring eyes scar through that book of lies,
and to the truth,
well our search is dignified.

Whilst the yawny drone of physical machinery
march in the robot mode to terminal destiny.
Microscopic observance,
forsaken innerland,
spiritual inertia,
absorbed in bland,
well our significance shan't sink in their charade,
'cos through their drab pantomine I say were gonna ride!

Chorus: End.