Our hair is long and unwashed
Matter and a home for lice
Our clothes are torn to pieces
Nasty, full of paints
We wear rivet, chains and leather
Cartridge-belts and pentagrams
Our souls belong to Satan
Master of our fate

Bang your heads against the stage
Dive in the trashing crowds
We mosh!
We are outlaws, we are aliens
We are proud
Heavy is our music
Fast and loud

Weekend at a concert
The band begins to play
After all the drugs and beer
Our reasons blown away
A poser in the back-row
Who doesn't bang his head
Is undressed and walloped by us
Until he's nearly dead

We drink beer without chemicals
We're possessed by sodomy
Curse the gods, deplore the indians
Weep for our trace and Sergeant D.
We set the highest value
On the musical ability
We are sure that our favourites
Are the best, can play anything