Imagine an empty tower block,
High on hill, taking stock.
Watching us meandering by
Through each and every uncaring glass eye.
It knows that its usefulness has past
And a higher tower will be cast.
All that's left is fate worse than death
But wait, could this be new living breath ?
No, just a stay of execution
That alone is no solution.
After this and every fight
They daub their messages clear and bright.
When the demolition proper does begin
There is one hope to which we cling,
When we have reached our three score years and ten
There’ll be no one to degrade us then !