The disc brakes drag, the chequered flag
Sweeps across the oil-slick track
The young man's home, dry as a bone
His helmet off, he waves, the crowd waves back

One lap victory roll
gladiator soul
The taker of the day in winning has to say:

Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand?
Dead or alive
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand?
Dead or alive

The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks
Touches the old man where he sleeps
The nurse brings up a cup of tea
Two biscuits and the morning paper mystery

The hard road's end
The white god's send is nearer everyday
In dying the old man says:

The still-born child can't feel the rain
As the chequered flag falls once again
The [bad [bad word] his final score
He'll never hear the sweet encore

The chequered flag, the bull's red rag
The lemming-hearted hordes [bad word] ever faster to the shore, singing: