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.
