it's a cold place
far from where we've been from
it's an old place
new to us, the lonesome one
stretching for miles to the ends of all,
stretching for whiles to the cities, so small
The dry sea, deep blue, but shallow
it's only roamers, hope it never to be so fallow
from one land come another sort of folk
who hope to reap the sand, to take it's yolk
they sowed their own seas, they made their bed
they siphened it, turning the green one red
so they sit at the edge of all
with their squealing sin and metal skin
they talk so sweet with quite a drawl
with nothing but bitter, sick intention