We are up straight down through the clouds
Red as blood or Beaujolais
Weeding smokes that thrill the crowds
And how may hope it doesn't rain today?
Cause we've paid a price to see them,
nobody admits
And the hungry child just spits In the acceptable face of genocide
Through fenland's faulted runway lights
Guide a tired folk along to rest
To recall its youthful cold war flights In a dodo's corrugated nest
Another dusty number in an M.O.D.
archive Why can't it ever fly?
It was the futile face of genocide
Between the high street stores in town Recruiting centres,
vulture hands
The co-op cypress spectrum found
A youthful drummer for his band
He doesn't care sell any more than unemployed and willing
To take the tarmish shilling Out on the shopping streets of genocide
We've paid a price to see them,
nobody admits And the hungry child just spits
In the acceptable face of genocide