Lounging back in their golden chairs

Plastic smiles surrounded by their plastic hair

Tiny microphone in his swollen hand

Screeching out their praises up to Bula Land

He can't wait to die



A crowd of zombies listen as they wail and cheer

He's likely to expire in another year

Rejoice hallelujah, I want to die

I wanna see what happens in the blink of an eye



Overweight southern drawl, dissonant voice

Glazed over cloudy gaze lacks a choice

Their eyes roll back as they raise their hands

I think I see it coming, it's Bula Land!