The coming world, or when pigs actually fly.

We don't need your defecation,
There's not a need for thought control,
Minds are programmed in the classroom,
Just write our chips, and we will know...
All the smarts of a traffic cone!
All the feelings of rotting bones.
Silence! All thinking, speech - that be ours alone.
All that is, all that was - is but ours alone.

Lost, a whirlwind of destruction,
Constant loss, mental malfunction,
Propaganda screams at us daily,
Fear of fashion, fear of failing.
All the smarts, of a traffic cone!
All the feelings, of a rotting bone!
Your only wish is to be another brick in the wall!
Mortar and grime cover your face as a brick in the wall.

Screaming carousell imported from hell itself.

Smashed and broken, society's failure,
Crushed and ground, fed to the worms,
All around you, people laughing,
Your misfortune is their pleasure!
All the smarts of a traffic cone!
All the feelings of rotting bones.
The wall has crumbled, now you're hidden from sight,
The wall has conquered, it's proven itself right.

(The last word of the last line 'right' is echoed as the song
slowly fades)