Peter was a rebel
Who stood at Hyde Park Corner
Waving fists at crowds of pigeons strutting by
And policemen standing by
With arms folded behind their brains
Staring up at brick glass buildings
Whose computer zombies stared back
Through their windows with deep sockets
That once were seeing eyes

Peter was a rebel
Who realised that the population
Was really not interested
And now works in a computer mock mansion
Spewing tick-a-shit
For 12 hang-up-drop-dead-pounds a week
And watched the clock ticking
Through morning noon and night
To eternal sleep