(Verse 1) They gathered near the lecture hall, He furrowed his brow, pondering it all, “Is my dialectic still too young?” He kissed his thesis, ink still wet, Took up his pen, with ideas beset, Heaven knows, he’d write anything, but…

(Chorus) “All night,” he said, “I want the young Hegelian, The dialectical fire, the revolutionary flame, All right, I want the young Hegelian.”

(Verse 2) Through the smoky haze of Hegel’s prose, She scanned the room, her passion grows, He coughed, adjusting his spectacles, But she craved more than mere dialectical, Not just the thesis, but the antithesis, The synthesis of minds, their intellectual bliss.

(Chorus) “All night,” she whispered, “I want the young Hegelian, The thesis and antithesis, merging in debate, All right, I want the young Hegelian.”

(Bridge) “Do you recall,” he asked, “our Marx and Engels? The bills we paid with borrowed theories, Or even yesterday’s Hegelian feast?”

(Verse 3) From Berlin to Paris, their fervor soared, Their manifesto penned, their voices roared, “Do we live for just these twenty years? Must we die for the fifty more?”

(Chorus) “All night,” they cried, “We are the young Hegelians, Dancing dialectics, hearts ablaze, All right, we are the young Hegelians.”

(Bridge) They weren’t pimps or hustlers, no bourgeois game, Just dialecticians, fueled by Hegel’s flame, Black, white, and red—their colors unfurled, In the revolution of ideas, they changed the world.

(Outro) And as the ink dried on their manifesto, They held hands, eyes alight with fervent glow, A chorus of dialectics, a symphony of thought, The young Hegelians, their legacy sought.