Bulldozer crickets 
Screaming like children 
The heat is heavy at the campsite 
Where families of human sealions 
Lie on hot rocks 
Roasting their eyeballs 
In their shiny red faces 
Whose idea is to blame 
For this household exodus 

Kitchenettes with foreign food 
And campers on wheels of exploited fortune 
Life is low and almost apocalyptic 
At the campsite 

It's hard to imagine 
That these self claimed inhabitants 
Have build cities 
And cultivated history 
In a rich and fascinating fashion 

Now they seem nothing more 
Than an extinct kind of primate 
That learned to use plastic utensiles 
Having skipped their stone and wooden variants 

We're leaning towards the edge of the open sea 
Waiting for the finger of redemption 
We're still waiting