Bastards of Young

by Paul Westerberg
God, what a mess
On the ladder of success
Where you take one step and miss the whole first rung
Dreams unfulfilled
Graduate unskilled
It beats picking cotton and waiting to be forgotten

We are the sons of no one
Bastards of the young
The daughters and the sons

Clean your baby womb
Trash that baby boom
Elvis in the ground, no waiting on beer tonight
Income tax deduction
What a hell of a function
It beats picking cotton and waiting to be forgotten

Unwillingness to claim us
You got no war to name us

The ones who love us best
Are the ones we'll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays, at best
The ones who love us least
Are the ones we'll die to please
If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand them