Down in a village where
Most residents were poor
An old man had a factory
That folks called «The Killing Floor»
He was a surly master
And though his workers all had wives
He'd work them within inches of their lives!
They all were sick and tired of this stuff
The men decided that they'd had enough
We won't take this anymore!
Not gonna die on The Killing Floor
He won't work us into the ground
It's time to strike a match and burn it down…
They waited for the old man
To head home for the night
Then muscled in with kerosene
And lanterns to ignite
They took one final look
At all these monsterous machines
Then lit the match that would fulfill their dreams
It was a blazing jubilee
They felt these flames had set these workers
Free
We won't take this anymore!
Not gonna die on The Killing Floor
He won't work us into the ground
It's time to strike a match and burn it down…
As the workers danced around
The fire having fun
The old man pulled up terrified
And screamed «What have you done?!
This factory was the only thing
That kept us all alive!
Now you've gone
And blown us all sky high!»
The factory was above an oil lake
But all too late they realized their mistake
We wouldn't take it anymore!
Didn't wanna die on The Killing Floor
But we drove ourselves to the ground
When we struck that match and burned it down!
Why'd we have to go and burn it down?!