Let me tell you the tales of your life Of your love and the cut of the knife The tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled The desire to kill or be killed Well, let me sing of the losers who lie In the street as the last bus goes by The pavements are empty: the gutters run red While the fool toasts his god in the sky So come all ye young men who are building castles! Kindly state the time of the year And join your voices in a hellish chorus Mark the precise nature of your fear Let me help you pick up your dead As the sins of the fathers are fed With the blood of the fools and the thoughts of the wise and From the pan under your bed Well, let me make you a present of song As the wise man breaks wind and is gone While the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose And the nursery rhyme winds along So, come all ye young men who are building castles! Kindly state the time of the year And join your voices in a hellish chorus Mark the precise nature of your fear See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you And the hour of judgement draweth near Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour Or the wiser man who rushes clear