Trotsky with his ice pick, lying stone cold dead,
Stalin on his podium, Marat in his bed,
Mao Tse Tung in Red Book, in his boiler suit,
Benito Mussolini, wearing his jack boot.
Lenin’s in the market place, taking all the money,
Khrushchev’s in the White House, eating bread and honey,
Kennedy’s in Cuba, smoking his cigar,
When down came Fidel Castro, and hit him with a jar.
So sing the song of rebels, a pocket full of dreams,
Red flags in the Kremlin, amidst the pinks and creams,
Robespierre at the guillotine, talking to Sadam,
And Bin Laden at the Twin Towers, like he gives a damn.
And at the tomb of Karl Marx the workers sing their hymn,
Comrades be united, do our jobs with vim,
Toil for better living, heat and roofs and glass,
Then win the bloody lottery and let them kiss my arse.