This is the wasteland, we call this the wasteland,
Where fewer little posh boys can´t believe we treasure beer cans.
Where´d you get those fans,
Found them at the shop man,
Peculiar place to find them but they´re dedicated View fans.

You think it´s cynical to this home a miracle,
It´s not a miracle; we´re just so strangely typical,
Initiate in one gang, initiations tough man,
Imprisonment is on the cards,
We´re heading for the quick sand.

Sign on the brew, coz there´s nothing to do,
Nothing to do, but listen to you,
Not listening to you my parents told me not to,
This is the wasteland, our idealistic wasteland,
Regurgitated circle of a seven hour shop stand.

So steal a car chief, the police are off the beat thief,
They´ll find it funny when they see insurance relief,
Sign on the brew, coz there´s nothing to do,
Nothing to do, but I listen to you,
I´m not listening to you my parents told me not to,

Think you´re a hard prick, something quite sadistic,
No you weren´t sadistic when he´d done you with the brick vick,
Your land is boring, so very, very boring.
Wouldn´t dream to wonder if it´s raining or it´s snowing.

This is the wasteland, wasteland...