Thy heads be kept higher,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not be drowning in
paper flowing through the air,
for thy eyes see no green
but in the grass stains on thy jeans.

Thy minds be kept cleaner,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not mind thy own stench,
Nye, ye only smell the toxic crowds
of rapacious men who step on thy feet
throwing cold copper hail stones pressed with a dead man's pompous glare.
All ye common folk, thou not hear our fife hiss and whistle?
Let its melody awaken you from thy ignorant trance.

Keep marching along,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
let thy tune clear the ears of our cracked streets,
our broken nations,
our dying world,
to the piercing pitch of thy people.