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Space Train (The gangmaster’s song)

Give me your poor,

Your huddled – um – sod it, whatever.

I don’t rightly recall the rest but

God bless the Founding fucking Fathers.

Watch your screens, brothers and sisters,

On the glorious, glorious Fourth of July,

You’ll be riding that skyway.

There’s your ship,  the Liberation.

Oh, she’s a beauty. Ain’t so? Ain’t?

Think of it, people.

Every one of you guaranteed a line of sky,

credits in your pockets, oh yes!

Hit those buttons. Make your mark

and climb aboard the space train.

Run ’em against our criteria, Mister C.

What’s that? Course we’ll get a cargo, man.

Dangle bait and the hungry come crawling.

Shes? Sure. Take care, they’re breeding stock.

Now for the men. I like the dummos,

bend the back, take an order sort,

easy under the yoke.

Civilisations are born on blood and bone.

Don’t matter if it’s Ex-T or sodding Rome,

The poor are always with us. Bless their hearts.

                        And you know what, Mr. C?

                        To that I say Amen, Amen.

Space Train: Text
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