"Bones beneath the shovel's blade," that's what the radio said, Years ago, a payoff made built a mall on top of the dead. Eighty thousand underground, Eighty thousand; not a sound, Eighty thousand nameless souls; brothers, sisters of us all. A mother in her cotton dress, A little baby taken in distress, A hobo with a kindly face, There was a daughter of a southern slave. Eighty thousand underground, Eighty thousand; not a sound, Eighty thousand nameless souls; brothers, sisters of us all. Bulging wallets, empty hearts, The walking dead push shopping carts, What price human dignity? Betrayed because of poverty. Eighty thousand underground, Eighty thousand; not a sound, Eighty thousand nameless souls; brothers, sisters of us all, Eighty thousand underground, Eighty thousand; not a sound, Eighty thousand nameless souls; brothers, sisters of us all, Eighty thousand...underground, Eighty thousand...not a sound, Eighty thousand, Eighty thousand, Eighty thousand underground.