We’re sitting on a pile of nothing. If it was a throne it would shine, bright and sleek as the rhymers’ punch lines. If it was a sceptre, only the wretches would fight for it. But there’s NO throne, NO sceptre. NO. Dressed in mud with jewels of rust. Proud as tar-blooded lords, we wear crowns made of dust with our heads held high. And gleaming chains created by our debts. NO is the word. We come from it, we’re goin' back to it. We are the firsts among the outcasts. We are the Lords Of Nothing.