Savio’s screaming down in the salt lake dust mines of education;
Savio’s screamin’ about broken bodies on broken slave-drivin’ wheels/
burn with embarrassment like it were lickin’ at yer heels/
an’ Jesus moans that if the machine weren’t so fuckin’ odious then he couldn’t find no melodious tune to cry.

Oh, Mario, you come down to Salford one a’ these days an’ I’ll show you
show you the student products/
sparkling water hewn from human aqueducts/
an can you tell these people to throw their bodies on’t gears an’t wheels
and see for you get high on knock off product from the toilets in Lady Hale.

Y’know, Savio, I heard the captain fell off the top of a cop car and was taken by the FBI/
you never wore a red armband anyway, they’ve all ‘eard him sigh,
so I guess yer off the hook/
but maybe you mounted a copper one time too many or you wore the wrong shade of tie
– maybe you picked out crimson cloth?

Sales clerk politics,
political sales instructor with blood in yer veins
an’ not on the gears an’ the wheels an’ the machines
an’ the cobblestone streets/
ain’t you just some romantic Petofi cos’ yer an American
an’ he was only a poet,
smirkin’ against a stone foreskin’s bloodless lanes/
yer an ideal mate, an activist like p-Rick to aspire to,
preachin’ broken bodies like a real humanist, strung on wood and wire and the printing presses and plump optimistic thighs
with as much meat on ‘em as sometin’ you’ll find an eagle dropping.