Five Hundred miles deep
where the work has just begun
the sweaty backs of Chinamen
reflect the high noon sun

Their hammers strike the iron stakes
with a sharp resounding ring
and they murmur ancient melodies
to the rhythm of their swing

a hundred miles deeper
in an oaken-wooded glen
rusty-bearded lumberjacks
take up the axe again

every man together
brings the forest to its knees
and grumbles songs of yesteryear
to the beat of falling trees

deeper still, the boys in blue
staying true to form,
pointing with their bayonets
upon the village swarm

they spill the purest blood
over sacred ground
their muskets singing fiery death
with that wicked, wicked sound.