Text: Herbert GráƒÂ¶nemeyer. Hard Heads.

:
on the street, it's blood and boots
'round at mum's, they're tea and smiles
on their own they're going nowhere
but in their gang they can goosestep miles

get the hard on when they're hunting
prowling for their prey in packs
real hard cards in real hard toe caps
they'd collapse should you push back

hard boiled heads
who've had their small brains
scrambled soft
jellies with no bone
leaderless tape
playing back hatred, sounding tough
en masse, but not alone!

see the victim wheelchair weak
poor and homeless in the park
now the wolves are closing in
cowards hidden by the dark

with their deadly killer dogs
they think they're sharp just like the teeth
but its racist paranoia
bites them on their soft beneath

hard boiled heads...

they wash their minds in slogans white
and hang them up until they've dried
marching to a clean new world
while running from the skunk inside

hard boiled heads...

soul less, booted human tanks
they're crushing all that's different
while smart, white collar criminals
push cannon fodder to the front

hard boiled heads...