Look at them out there,
living on the ash
that stretches forever
in this barren gash.
The Lord guides our wagons,
He won’t let us crash.
The Lord guides our wagons,
He won’t let us crash.
Can you see them circling,
the twister-blown trash,
Our Father will come down,
save us with a flash.
But if they come any closer,
I’ll do something rash.
…they come any closer,
I’ll do something.
They come any closer,
I might do something rash.
They come any closer,
I might do something rash.