Pack up what you own, and you dial up who you can phone, and you save up all your pennies, and we hope but, oh -- is there any -- and we wonder, oh, how can he put you out tonight?
Go back in your mind, twenty years in time, and we'll go a-walking through your garden; see the trees you planted in your yard then.
All your work, it didn't seem so hard then, but it's hard tonight.
Five years further on, from the stage it looked like we'd won, but how many of those who heard you play have gone their insouciant ways?
And the streets run bloody to this day, and to your house tonight.

And we, still so touched, can we offer you that much more than those who you fought and who left you with nought, and who lied to you?
They lied to you, but this you always knew.
So pack up your bulls and smalls, and we'll tack up your paintings on our walls, and we'll write down all our songs then, and we'll right up all our wrongs then, and we'll tear up the streets a million strong then, in your name tonight.