Nearby the green water, nearby the smell of mud,
Watching admiringly the cobweb flight,
A crazy boy beats an empty tin,
The crazy boy beats an old can.
It’s music on the sand, music on the sand.
It’s music on the sand, music on the sand.
The sound tempting the nerves comes
From the empty space, from the old can.
The crazy boy beats weirdly and steadily at
The rusty tanks and huge cisterns.
It’s music on the sand, music on the sand.
Music on the sand.
We follow it like animals
And feel nervous in melancholy.
It’s music on the sand,
Music on the sand.
Nearby a green wave, nearby an old stone,
He makes a flag from a tattered shirt,
He makes a sabre of a willow stick
And murmurs some abracadabra.
He builds the sand castles and
Gives a screw-loose signs.
He builds the sand castles and
Gives a screw-loose sign.
We quit families, we burn the money,
Fight for loud canister in a disposal dump.
Kitchen women carry frying pans,
Ministers go far away carrying paper buckets.
And to the drumbeat,
Calling us to follow it,
And to the drumbeat
We haste and follow it like rats
And disappear in the surf.
Music under the water,
Music under the water.