Criticized for the way we would talk
And the dirt that they saw on our hands.
Hypnotized, they would send us to walk
‘Cross the desert through hell-ridden lands.
And the wicked will rule with a fist
Made of iron that we forged ourselves.
And the heads of the fathers hang low
‘Cause they know the blame lies with themselves.
Oooohhh, ballyhoo.
Send me back to the old world...
In the land of the true.
Get me back to the old world...
I’m so scared of the new.
We would roam through the pines in December—
The grizzlies would stare from their caves.
We made homes near the mines, I remember—
The forefathers called them their graves.
Fortune favors the cold and the heartless
Who drive a hard nail through the box.
Torture favors the bold and the bravest o’ souls
From the first time they talk.
Oooohhh, ballyhoo.
Send me back to the old world...
In the land of the true.
Get me back to the old world...
I’m so scared of the new.
There was grace in the words we had,
Though they were few.
There was faith in the people
For all they’d been through.
Send me back to the old world...
In the land of the true.
Get me back to the old world...
I’m so scared…
Send me back to the old world...
In the land of the true.
Get me back to the old world...
I’m so scared of the new.
Oooohhh, ballyhoo.
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