Burn the Castle

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