Cargo

White sand beach and a tropical breeze, he waits
Radio made from parts from the sea, we wait
Coconut headphones listening
Shriveled breasts, brainless grin

He's coming, he's coming, clear the airstrip

Bring your offerings, bring your finest seashells
Leave them there in that holy, holy place
Turn the crank on that rusty relic you found
Ask the sky for the mystical flying machine

Typhoon beats against the palm trees, we wait
Empty net and empty priest, he's late
Hungry, toothless, weak and old
I know what you've been told

He's coming, he's coming, clear the air strip

The tiki torches will guide his landing
He will descend to us in a terrible noise
He will smell of strange flowers and fruits
He will unload boxes filled with sugary treats
He will hand out pairs of sturdy, reliable footwear
He will bring metal pots that can hold boiling water
He will meet with our women and plant holy seed
His medicines will give us all back our youth