Sure, i was born working class
But that hero he was never in me
Does that leave me something to be?
Other than this mess of insecurities
Those that i seek to pass on to you
With these bats in my eyes and spiders in my bed
How do I see through the webs of deceit?
That dark the night but flame the passions of the free

Running wild within a solitary cell
An inner longing endlessly persecutes me
Hell is round the corner offering sympathy and tea
Laughing  sarcastically, a mirror of 1988
A parish hall, a community, a church fete
Still life of a young boy of Corpus Christi
Stealing cards, running yards, playing to be hard
As I pray to the saints and plead for relief

Mother calls as supper lays on the kitchen table
Boy complies, studies hard, proves to be able
Now those days are gone, left far behind
All freedom is lost through the estates of the blind
Where are they now, his prayer and his plea?
Grey eyes, grey suit and grey tie
Nothing is left, there is no one to be
This is the hero, the hypocrite in me