Rallying Call To The Bedrooms Of The Doomed

Pull your tongue out and cut off your fingers,
The defeat in your will sweetly lingers.
This image you portray is of peace with no smile,
Do you hunger for loneliness; perverse and vile?
You typify angst of "The Beaten Generation."
It seems only misery and death cause elation.
The The may have written the damn song for you,
But we thought they wrote it for us, too.

Call me a dark-minded cynic, and you're right.
In my bleak Eighties soul there's still fight.
I never wrote of how sad everything did seem,
Carcinogenic society: perfect government scheme.
So sweep your hair to one side and stand up,
From the cup of defiance will you sup?
I can't stand to see "No Future" become "Whatever".
Direct your panic attack to "Now or Never".