Surfin' Guantanamo Bay - David Ford

All the high ground’s covered in a thick, black fog

Any man of any honour he’ll be dying like a dog

There’s an ill wind and it’s blowing up perfect, man, you know what I say?

Pick up your waterboard and meet me down at Camp X-Ray

Yeah, everybody’s gone surfin' Guantanamo Bay

I try to wash it all away in the swell

But every wave digs my soul a little closer to Hell

Try to push a little conscience to the back of my head

Out in the water until the whole damn ocean turns to red

Well the weather’s pushing ninety, but my blood runs cold

And my faith is a slow, complicit torture for my soul

Can you feel that fizz and it feels okay?

I’m packing up all of my troubles

Wash them clean in the spray

Yeah, everybody’s gone surfin' Guantanamo Bay

I try to wash it all away in the swell

But every wave pulls my soul a little closer to Hell

Try to push a little conscience to the back of my head

Out in the water until the whole damn ocean turns to red…