The stars collected
Each world accounted for
Freed all the children
Seems there is nothing more

If I only had a rowboat I would row it up to heaven
And if heaven will not have me I would take the other option
I will seek out my own satisfaction

From the wight lying in the barrow
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness
They will feign an expression of sadness
A concatenation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus
On the pitch of the Avenroe grasses
I will sing, sing, sing to the masses
Oh Heartland, up yours

The hollow voice of the 14th century
Too much assumption to be taken seriously

Oh, you wrote me like a Disney kid, in cut-offs and a beater
With a feathered fringe it doesn't suit a simoniac breeder
Doesn't work, doesn't fly, doesn't handle

From the wight lying in the barrow
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness
They will feign an expression of sadness
A concatenation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus
On the pitch of the Avenroe grasses
I will sing, sing, sing to the masses
Oh Heartland, up yours

My homeland
I will not sing your praises here