Looking down by satellite,
at a speck of waste ground
Theres no houses close by
It seems to be a dry and rocky place
With a patch of green, I think it's a hill
There seems to be a flock of people
Circling in from every side
Every nations colour, in finary and squalor
All clambering to climb
The big green hill, the big green hill
Its a steep steep climb with heavy bags
That have been carried for such a long long time
As they reach the top all their straps begin to snap
And they watch them roll roll
and roll away never to be seen again
Carrying all sorts of things
A rug sack
With lots of hidden pockets
Bringing them on buses
with their bulging suitcases
All clambering to climb
Carry them for the very last time
Your hurting shoulders will soon be there
Keep going till you find an old dirty cross
at the top of the hill
Every overcrowded bag was taken
Kneeling at the top the ground was shaken
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