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    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!

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