Let's inherit the earth, because no one else is taking it
Come on, do your worst, before the moment's passed
In bedrooms across England, and all the Western world,
There's posters and there's magazines but the music isn't ours
Because we write love songs in C, we do politics in G,
We sing songs about our friends in E minor
So tear down the stars now and take up your guitars:
Come on folks and try this at home
Let's stop waiting around for someone to patronize us
Let's hammer out a sound that speaks of where we've been
Forget about the haircuts, the stupid skinny jeans,
The stampedes and the irony, the media-fed scenes
Because the only thing that punk rock should ever really mean
Is not sitting round and waiting for the lights to go green,
And not thinking that you're better because you're stood up on a stage
If you're oh so fucking different then who cares what you have to say?
And there's no such thing as rock stars, there's just people who play music,
And some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks
So quick, turn off your stereo, pick up that pen and paper,
You could do much better than some half-arsed skinny English country singer