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 would not have me I would take the other option
I will seek out my own satisfaction

From the wood lying in the bedroom
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 fourteenth century
Too much assumption to be taken seriously
On the road like a Disney kid in cutoffs and a beater
With a feathered fringe, it doesn't suit a simonia greeter
Doesn't work doesn't fly doesn't handle

From the wood lying in the bedroom
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

(Oh violent lent violent lent violent lent)

I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here