Dunes

Celtic strangers don't belong in lands of golden sand,
For feet which trod green cliff and vale, the dunes are far too
bland,
The city bakes in molten sun,
Dry ground soaks life from everyone,
They're forced to have constructed fun,
In this third rate desert land.

Great buildings spring up everywhere yet none knows what they're
for,
Big glass shopping-bunkers just don't impress them anymore,
It's hard to lead a pleasant life,
When slashed by heaven's twin-edged knife,
And depression's sun-baked stench is rife,
Hush! Hear the city's roar.

Tired workers dig up pipes, their roads are always moving,
Ever strike them that their rulers don't know what the hell they're
doing?
Angry minds suggest a strike,
They forget they don't have any rights,
The fists of paradise crush them tight,
Can't you hear the silent booing?

The place has always been this way but cash has fed the beast,
The smug and clawing creature will bloat for twenty years at
least,
In this wasteland wrapped in bright-blue foil,
One day you must do without your oil,
No workers to carry out your toil,
And the people you once burdened will point and laugh and feast.