| Drugged a million words, just like ourselves. | |
| Formed a straight line, plucking at sound-waves. | |
| And oh, for no-one ever. Darkest singing. | |
| The days of tripping upon snakes are over now. | |
| Do you feel empty now? Do you feel empty now, Inside? | |
| Do you feel empty now inside the fascist city? | |
| Empty now? Inside... | |
| And I'm thinking of euphoria. Spiked on golden splinters. | |
| With the church of relativity all under my fingers. | |
| Head up into the bluest skies. | |
| Stuck in the glue with the dying flies. | |
| Inside the vapour you were grown. | |
| In the LSD of the speaker cone. | |
| Been given the cobwebs to blow away. | |
| Been celebrating each wasted day. | |
| In unconditional luxury. | |
| Comatose, living life in a sugar cube. | |
| Do you feel pleasure now? | |
| Do you feel pleasure now inside the fascist body? | |
| Inside... | |
| Post-acid youth. Post-acid youth. Post-acid youth... | |
| Dumb and hooked on fossil fuels. A gorged generation. | |
| Speckled and smackey. Singing Prozac is golden. | |
| Escaped the prison they called the head. | |
| And glittered the bones of the young and dead. | |
| On big Imperial chemistry. Elastic, dumb and vulnerable. | |
| But somewhere down south - You're where the birds are singing. | |
| You'll hear the barbed wire doves of a million mothers. | |
| Is there fulfilment now? | |
| Is there fulfilment now inside the fascist psyche? | |
| The fascist psyche. Bring us fulfilment now. Inside. | |
| Post-acid youth. Post-acid youth. Post-acid youth... |
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