Some kind of order is what we're after The sound of truth doesn't matter any more, happy poor There is a trick some kind of lure No means of knowing sure anymore, happy poor There's only me and some of you Everyday we lose a few planned phrases that keep us cool A pair of friends we have to eat You and I will always be chasing a carrot with bloody feet I'm sick and tired of all the people Don't you know there are no equals anywhere, never were Stop think for a second Don't ask dumb questions anymore, happy poor