Lyrics

A holiday under your feet
A palace built upon the backs of
Your precious tribe on molten earth
Surrounded by a mass of wretched hands
All of the past can wash away
All of the sanctions overplayed
Al of the press can be restrained
All of the dead can be a trade
Ooh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Well, freedom come and freedom go
Your mission fell upon the banks of gold
Ooh, turned you sour as old milk
Your colours change with every whisper made
All of the past can wash away
All of the sanctions overplayed
Al of the press can be restrained
All of the dead can be a trade
Ooh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
All of the past can wash away
All of the sanctions overplayed
Al of the press can be restrained
All of the dead
All of the past can wash away
All of the sanctions overplayed
Al of the press can be restrained
All of the dead
Written by: Emma Coleman, Fred Harper, James Grunwell, Nick Rasle, Sam Murray
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