Music on the sand

by green slimy water, by the muddy scent
watching in awe the flight of spider web
a mad punk is knocking on a box of tin,
a mad punk is hitting an old copper can
music on the sand, music on the sand, music on the sand, music on the sand
out of empty space, out of a boiling pot
a nerve-wrecking sound is what he's got
a mad punk strikes eery and even at the rusty tanks and enormous cisterns
music on the sand, music on the sand, music on the sand, music on the sand
we are following it like beasts, overtaken by despair
music on the sand, music on the sand
by the green slimy wave, by an old tired stone
he is making a banner from a torn-up shirt
out of willow stick he is making a saber
and is muttering some kind of abracaDUBra
making castles out of sand, looks to be at his wits' end
making castles out of sand, looks to be at his wits' end
we abandon families, we burn our cash, we are scuffling over that loud vat
kitchen ladies carry their pans, cabinet members leave with buckets in hands..
and to the sound of beating drums, he is calling onto us,
to the sound of beating drums..