The kings,
They come in caravans to die
And they bring with them their servants.
And their jewels stay with them
When they are buried
One hundred years apart
In the back yard.
And their graves
Fall down
And are removed
For paving stones
And the road that the kings arrived on
Is called Kings Highway.
Now cars race along that way
Right off the edge
And are buried and so on.
And doesn’t this sound familiar?
The lights turn green;
They let the cars go,
And then they turn red as blood