The disc brakes drag,
The chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slide 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 the sweet encore
The chequered flag, the red bull's 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.