Theres a place in the world for the angry young man
With his working class ties and his radical plans
He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl,
Hes always at home with his back to the wall.
And hes proud of his scars and the battles hes lost,
And he struggles and bleeds as he hangs on the cross-
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.

Give a moment or two to the angry young man,
With his foot in his mouth and his heart in his hand.
Hes been stabbed in the back, hes been misunderstood,
Its a comfort to know his intentions are good.
And he sits in a room with a lock on the door,
With his maps and his medals laid out on the floor-
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.

I believe Ive passed the age of consciousness and righteous rage
I found that just surviving was a noble fight.
I once believed in causes too,
I had my pointless point of view,
And life went on no matter who was wrong or right.

And theres always a place for the angry young man,
With his fist in the air and his head in the sand.
And hes never been able to learn from mistakes,
So he cant understand why his heart always breaks.
But his honor is pure and his courage as well,
And hes fair and hes true and hes boring as hell-
And hell go to the grave as an angry old man.