Take all your overgrown infants away, somewhere,
And build them a home, a little place of their own.
The Fletcher Memorial Home for incurable tyrants and kings.
And they can appear to themselves every day,
On closed circuit T.V. to make sure they're still real.
It's the only connection they feel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Reagan and Haig,
Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher and Paisley,
Mr. Brezhnev and party, the ghost of McCarthy,
The memories of Nixon. And now adding colour,
A group of anonymous Latin-American meat packing glitterati."

Did they expect us to treat them with any respect?
They can polish their medals and sharpen their smiles,
And amuse themselves playing games for a while.
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead.

Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye,
With their favorite toys, they'll be good girls and boys.
In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial wasters of life and limb.
Is everone in? Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied.