All the high groundÂ's covered in a thick, black fog
Any man of any honour heÂ'll be dying like a dog
ThereÂ's an ill wind and itÂ's blowing up perfect, man, you know what I say?
Pick up your waterboard and meet me down at Camp X-Ray
Yeah, everybodyÂ's gone surfinÂ' 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 weatherÂ'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?
IÂ'm packing up all of my troubles,
Wash them clean in the spray
Yeah, everybodyÂ's gone surfinÂ' 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...