A Nation of Immigrants

Dust storm is clearing, the old familiar dream.
I wave my seeing hand, asleep again on haunted land.
Rode in on iron horses, their hooves that crack the ground.
We water them in creeks of blood; no richer oil have we found.
Hear the ghosts of the west - they burn them traincars down.
As peddlers we trade in death;
Blood and gunpowder for a crooked crown.
A nation, on no man's land; no nation, on graves will stand.
A nation, will be thy end.
No nation, for cursed men.