He's young, he's old, he's in between, and he's so very much confused
He'll scrounge around and protest all day long
He joins the pickets at Berkeley, and he burns up his draft card
And he's twisted into thinking that fighting is all wrong.
He's a pacifist, an extremist, a communist or just a Yank,
a demonstrator, an agitator, or just a knave,
a conscientious objector, a fanatic, a defector,
and he doesn't know he's digging his own grave.
Oh, he just can't get it through his thick skull, why the mighty USA
has got to be a watchdog of the world
He'll see the USSR bury us from afar,
and he'll never see the missiles being heard.
He's the universal coward, and he runs from anything,
from a giant, to a human, from an elf
He runs from Uncle Sam, and he runs from Vietnam,
but most of all he's running from himself.