[bad word]  my son
To where the work is never done
And the hungry are seldom ever fed

The department of false hope
Is a proving ground for dopes
And they'll grind your tiny bones to make their bread

So hold your head up high, forgotten man
Tomorrow won't be made for you
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand
For god and man, there's nothing more to do

It crackled on the radio
Through bright plumes of the sun
The announcer said the age of faith was dead

Though the adolescent nation
Was just looking for salvation
The beast of reason reared its ugly head

So hold your head up high, forgotten man
Tomorrow's not for me and you
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand
For god and man, there's nothing more to do

From your cradle of [bad word] With the poorest of [bad word] And the merest sliver of a tune
Oh, you managed somehow to muddle through

So hold your head up high, forgotten man
Tomorrow's not for me and you
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand
For god and man, there's nothing more to do

There is nothing more...