I am tired of all the bells and bugles,
I am tired of not seeing the end.

I am tired of standing up for things not my own,
And suffer when I stand alone.

So Now If Rome is burning itself to the ground
Let it burn, Oh let it burn

And if Nero wants to play the fiddle
Then let him play, let him play

For one less pail of water I'm sure I have
And in his songs his death he calls.