I see the ugly green huts littering the skyline,
early on a spring morning,
The song of the birds is drowned out
the hum of machinery,
How long must this obscenity continue?
A relentless filling up of lorries
only by the filling up of pockets,
A blight on the face of our hillside.
I smell the bitterness of the dust,
in the once pure mountain air,
I see the filth from the overfilled lorries,
on hedge and roadside,
will refill the hole in our little mountain?
Will a dormant volcano ooze forth?
Will Fionn McCool rise from his eternal
to throw an island at the hill?
They fill their lorries as they line their pockets,
On the pock marked
face of Hannahstown.