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As the lamps go out in Gideon
And the rafts drift through the mire
You can hear the songs of spear toads
Ring out like a sap-blessed choir
Oh Blackwood, Vastei, Vastei, Blackwood
Rotuheeva! Rotuheeva!
Sigh your tales, Make moist our scales
When I swim your murky waters,
And I taste the wasso fruit
I count my blessings, like torchbug flares
That it's here my Hist took root
Oh Blackwood, Vastei, Vastei, Blackwood
Rotuheeva! Rotuheeva!
Sigh your tales, Make moist our scales!
The smell of peat fills my nose
And the mud dries on my back
I feel the swell of one hundred harvests
Sleeping in your soil so black
Oh Blackwood, Vastei, Vastei, Blackwood
Rotuheeva! Rotuheeva!
Sigh your tales, Make moist our scales!
Rotuheeva! Rotuheeva!
Sigh your tales, Make moist our scales!