Aye, it’s true

The devils monkeys on the devils monkey island,

Are at industry for their master, growing fake bananas

Can you not tell, ’cause, like, there’s no industry left?

The country is a manufacturer of hell

Sorrowful women, cross themselves

Upside down, draw their last laugh, in the

Humourless desert, bereft, for the black clerics

Arrival, the country’s master, aye, the dick