Оригинален текст
Now all the gods have fled
Our noble kind is dead
A sickly greed is spread
Across the land
Every tear's been shed
Every vein is bled
And but a few crumbs of bread fall from the pan
The Fates will sigh, "Alas"
As if the die is case
If we don't pull our heads out of the sand
Ain't askin' for your dough, bro
Money, honey, marzipan
Lend us your hand
It's time to stick it to the man!