A Nation Of Immigrants

Wayfarer

Compositor: Não Disponível

Dust storm is clearing, the old familiar dream
I wave my seeing hand, asleep again on haunted land

Rode in on iron horses, their hooves that crack the ground
We water them in creeks of blood; no richer oil have we found

Hear the ghosts of the west - they burn them traincars down
As peddlers we trade in death; blood and gunpowder for a crooked crown

A nation, on no man's land; no nation, on graves will stand
A nation, will be thy end. No nation, for cursed men