When they look back at us and they write down their history
What will they say about our generation?
We're the ones who knew everything and still we did nothing
Harvested everything, planted nothing.
Well we live pretty well in the wake of the goldrush
Floating in comfort on waves of our apathy
Quietly gnawing away at Her body
Until we mortgage the future, bury our children
Storehouses full with the fruits we've been given
We send off the scrag-ends to suckle the starving