On a morning-after protest Tuesday
In a country where they turned off their minds
He came strutting down the street like P.T.Barnum
Contemplating a crime

He came out of the slums in a silk shirt
Scheming like a carpet-bagger in the day ..Hm
Don't bother asking for explanations all we can tell you is he came
In the year of the cock.

He doesn't have much use for questions
As he fills up your head with fears
And you swallow 'till your sense of misdirection
completely disappears

By the blue chip wall
near the wall street halls
there's a cleaners that he leads you to
"these days", he says, "I feel my life
is about putting it to you"
In the year of the cock

Well he looks at you so rudely
and his hands clench
just like oil-can Harry
thinking thoughts about a saw-mill
then he takes you, to find what's waiting inside
the year of the cock

When morning comes and he's still with you
with the busloads of stolen children
And your IRA is toast
Don't drink the water
But we're still number one

And the twit whit strains my belief and blames
All the pain he's caused on someone else
We know some time he'll finally leave us
but for now we have to pay
for the year of the cock