VERSE This is the wasteland, we call this the wasteland, Where fewer little posh boys can’t believe we treasure beer cans. Where’d you get those fans, Found them at the shop man, Peculiar place to find them but they’re dedicated View fans. You think it’s cynical to this home a miracle, It’s not a miracle; we’re just so strangely typical, Initiate in one gang, initiations tough man, Imprisonment is on the cards, We’re heading for the quick sand. Chorus Sign on the brew, coz there’s nothing to do, Nothing to do, but listen to you, Not listening to you my parents told me not to. Not listening to you my parents told me not to.