Текст песни David Bowie (3. The Man Who Sold the World, 1970) — 4. After All

Please trip them gently, they don't like to fall
There's no room for anger, we're all very small
We're painting our faces and dressing in thoughts from the skies, from paradise
But they think that we're holding a secretive ball
Won't someone invite them
They're just taller children, ooh, that's all, after all

Man is an obstacle, sad as the clown
So hold on to nothing, and he won't let you down
Some people are marching together and some on their own
Quite alone
Others are running, the smaller ones crawl
But some sit in silence, they're just older children, ooh, That's all, after all

I sing with impertinence, shading impermanent chords,
With my words
I've borrowed your time and I'm sorry I called
But the thought just occurred that we're nobody's children at all, ooh, after all

Live to your rebirth and do what you will
Forget all I've said, please bear me no ill
After all, after all