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Welcome, my son,
To where the work is never done
And the hungry are seldom ever fed.

The department of false hope
Is a proving ground for dopes.
And they'll grind your tiny bones to make their bread. (Hosanna.)

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.
Tomorrow won't be made for you.
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand.
For god and man, there's nothing more to do.

It crackled on the radio
Through bright plumes of the sun.
The announcer said the age of faith was dead.

Though the adolescent nation
Was just looking for salvation,
The beast of reason reared its ugly head. (Hosanna.)

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.
Tomorrow's not for me and you.
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand.
For god and man, there's nothing more to do.

From your cradle of destruction,
With the poorest of instruction
And the merest sliver of a tune,
Oh, you managed somehow to muddle through.

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.
Tomorrow's not for me and you.
And everybody's gotta try to lend a helping hand.
For god and man, there's nothing more to do.

There is nothing more...

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