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The Western Den
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Desert Ground
A hand woven basket my mother did make,
Strewn on the path I trod to sweet fields of cane.
High over Cairo, the Valley of Kings,
Where the Desert called their bodies down.
“Come on down to the desert ground”
The Lord of sand, he calls out.
Come on down to the desert ground.
Down to the desert ground, I come down.
It came down in a hurry, twirling in the air,
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And the lives upon this air balloon spoke their final prayer.
Now the Canes stood high, holding out their hand,
Though the Desert's hand was mightier, and no fall, could it withstand.
And lay there, a mother, her daughter and son,
The only three to last the fall, and tell of what'd been done.
How the Desert rules with an iron fist and nay believes in truth or grace,
And once bound by the Desert sound, ne'er we will escape.
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