The disc brakes drag, the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track
The young man's home; dry as a bone. His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul
The taker of the day in winning has to say
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive

The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks
Touches the old man where he sleeps
The nurse brings up a cup of tea – two biscuits and the morning paper mystery
The hard road's end, the white God's send is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive

The still-born child can't feel the rain as the chequered flag falls once again
The deaf composer completes his final score. He'll never hear his sweet encore
The chequered flag, the bull's red rag
The lemming-hearted hordes running ever-faster to the shore singing
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive