Killed by the common cold
Rock and roll is getting old
And savages we need to be
The future depends on how far back we can see

So turn off the TV
I don't need any more reason to fear that the end is near
That seems perfectly clear

And suffering has strange appeal(?)
The thing you held onto is no longer real
Lovers lie silent in bed
Not really living, but, not really dead

So turn off the TV
The empty colonial powers that be
Are now running scared
From the tolling bell (?)

And mythical Jesus, you died for our sins
Or was it a license for the things that we did
In the name of advancement, in God and in fear
Beautiful Jesus, what are we doing here

A posthumous word to thee
An account of a spiritual bankruptcy
Like a note left beside the bed
When you read it don't cry or shake your head
We're a spark in eternity
That so briefly lit up what should never have been