Where are the hippies, the greasers, the beats?

What are we, this lost generation walking the streets.

No identity, no control, and stuck without a damn place to go,

All we have in common is anguish; painful and slow.

Rotting away, bodies like corpses and a spirit like a ghost,

We are all chemically altered, our brains are toast.

We have our cocaine, heroine, speed and pot,

So sit down with a freak, strap up and take a shot.

You tell us we are wastes, but it is the drugs that bind us,

So I’ll put another gram straight in my sinus.

We can’t see your problem, we feel no guilt,

After all it was by freaks and rebels that this nation was built.

We dont give a damn how we live, we know we’re already dead,

But we have to fuel the Freak so we work hard for our bread.

We know the only way out is to lay down and die,

But we love our crazy lives, we see no reason why.

There is no reason to give it all up when you can stay this lifted,

Us freaks are wild, crazy and fun; we are the ones who are artistically gifted.

You try so damn hard to run us out though without us your lives would be dull,

With no music, TV, or movies to help you forget the daily bull.

You see we have our drugs, but you also have yours,

We have our speed and weed and you have your expensive cars.

We don’t ask you to change, and we expect the same,

For it seems any time there is a crime there is always a freak to blame.

All we need is a little social unification,

Something to bind together this powerful Freak Nation.

Yes we are the Freak Kingdom, spread far and wide,

You will see one of us sometime, there is nowhere to hide.