Looking down form Portsdown Hill now,
thousands of people getting by form day to day,
a product of our own creation,
from our images, we make the way.
A thousand million questions, a thousand different ways
but in essence nothing changes,
as we carry on from day to day.
It sure seems strange, but it happens every day
And down below is a supermarket,
full of plastic wrappings and plastic names
and going by all the people,
looking different, but all the same.
And their filling their baskets,
competition, the name of their game
and on the TV in the corner,
Somalia's bag of bones, fade away
It sure seems strange, but it happens every day
And down there all the locals,,
men and women, spending their change
And in the corner sits a guitar man,
looking different, but sounds the same
And there go all the people,
making money out of misery and pain
And on the TV in the corner,
Somalia's bag of bones, fade away.
