In the land of plenty.
In the land of throw away.
All the silent voices,
dancing every night away.
In the land of freedom.
A bigger freedom than the rest.
A place, it seems that colour,
can place you, under their arrest.
A place where freedom
tows the line,
underneath the dollar sign.
In the land of plenty.
Underneath the dying sky.

The Sugarloaf Mountain on our right,
and we ain't getting home tonight.
The Underlings from deep below,
have opened up the hidden doors.
They've come to change
the flight of men.
From deep within,
their ancient dens.

Ancient knowledge
Ancient ways.
Once more to see,
the light of day.
Stolen by the kings and queens.
The ones who've stolen
all our dreams.

The Underlings
are on the move.
Redemption sought
and souls to sooth.
From the centre
of our world.
The Underlings
are here once more.
Here to change the way we see,
everything that we can be.

High above the bubbling crowd,
the merchants,
privileged,
and crown.
Laughing at the fighting crowds.
Underneath their poison shroud.

High above the city square,
the people
all the ones that care.
They're laughing,
as we try to fight.
**** each other
every night.

A wandering soul,
upon the rocks.
The Oceans
never ending churning.
Seaweed, cast upon the stone.
Cast with thought
and constant yearning.
Once upon a lullaby.
At least a thousand years before.
A desperate secret
once was buried.
Underneath the soil and stone.
Where the dunes
begin to falter.
Where the sands
and forest meet.
Treasure buried in the long grass
hidden from the passing feet
Gold and Diamonds,
Sacred Sculptures.
Scriptures of an ancient tongue.
Hidden underneath the long grass,
lost beneath the burning sun.

Darkness hiding in the tree's.
A lonely crossroads.
No man's land.
Ancient rituals.
Ancient tortures.
Blood,
upon the soil
and sand.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Seeking out somewhere to lie.
A lonely soul,
lost with the seasons.
Underneath
a blood red sky.

And as the blood dries,
on the tarmac.
A winning smile, a wicked fate.
Gypsy ghosts,
no longer vocal.
Shadows waiting
at the gates.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Lost upon the darkness still
A lonely soul,
Lost with the seasons,
Forever lost
and wandering.

The steam lifts off the concrete floor
and paradise ain't here no more.
It set sail on a cargo ship
On a never ending trip.

It's out there, near the Bay of Pigs
lost between the reels and jigs.
On its way to distant shores.
Paradise ain't here no more.

Somewhere near the Southern Tip,
It's heard it let its secrets slip,
to a drunkard on the floor,
and paradise ain't here no more.

Lost forever to the stars.
Paradise has gone to far.
Through the clouds, an open door.
Now paradise ain't here no more.

Henry The Eight
passed through the gates,
of a lost
and broken town.
A grin upon a hollow face,
another jewel upon the crown.
And as he rode high on his horse.
A royal nose
raised to the sky.
An Irishman upon the crowd,
was plotting out
his way to die.

He'd followed him from Kensington...
a thousand paces.....
well behind.
Hiding in the shadows...
everyone at home in mind.
With every step
a memory,
another valid reason why.
He kissed the cross
hung from his neck,
knowing he was going to die.....