--Music—
Smokey Mountain
Paradise
Return to a land called paradise,
A place where a dying river ends.
No birds there fly over paradise,
No space allows them to endure.
The smoke that screens the air,
The grass that's never there.
And if i could see a single bird, what a joy.
I try to write some words and create
A simple song to be heard
By the rest of the world.
I live in this land called paradise,
In a house made of cardboard floors and walls.
I learned to be free in paradise,
Free to claim anything i see.
Matching rags for my clothes,
Plastic bags for the cold.
And if empty cans were all i have, what a joy.
I never fight to take someone
Else's coins and live with fear
Like the rest of the boys.
Paradise, help me make a stand.
Paradise, take me by the hand
Paradise, make the world understand
