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On the dusty road
of the northern coast
Where the concrete meets the
older ghost (yeah)
Feel the thunder roll
from the hills down low
(ai ai ai!)
Under the desert sun we ride the copper wind To the border
line where the stories begin
We are the sons of the dusty sound No chains can hold
us to
the
ground
With a wooden neck and a silver string
We hear the old-world trumpet sing
In the shadow of the oil rigs high
We shout our anthem to the sky
Under the desert sun we ride the copper wind To the border
line where the stories begin
We are the sons of the dusty sound No chains can hold
us to the ground
(ai ai ai!)