It's like a great lord in his castle owns everything that we do So we plough up his fields and tip our hats to the courtiers riding through And we polish up his suits of armour and we guard his hordes of gold In the hope that he'll protect us but he will not protect us Burn the castle Down in the streets of Bedlam it's left for a free-for-all All fueled by debt and paranoia and rivers of alcohol And the streets are filled with the sound of sirens but no ambulance in sight While in the lighted windows of the turrets above They count the takings for the night Burn the castle The smell of blood and buzzing flies As around the corpses the posse of newsmen rides To bring the fear and to bring it well Same old, same old, same old... You know there's no great lord in the castle – just the courtiers and their men And we're still ploughing up their fields and wishing we could be like them And we build their fleets of armour and we guard their hordes of gold In the hope that they'll protect us but they will not protect us Burn the castle