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