Right on Flroreana
Completely marooned
Managing to survive by the nice land
Hunter and farmer
And there he was lads, Mr.Watkins
Trading goods with fishermen
And whoever god sent
For now, 1807, insulae de los galopegos
Fits him in his crown, with no queen at all
Some will say the rum was the deal
Some will say it was just the bill
Yes, the land of his own
Patrick boy, king of nowhere
There's no need to run, no need to
No giant to fight or a fight to gamble, no
The time goes slower, it's time to think
It's time to drink, it's time to leave
Left by the crimes committed
Or just lost beyond the waves
Mercator once saw the land of greatness
Some will say the rum was the deal
Some will say it was just the bill
Yes, the land of his own
Patrick boy, king of nowhere
Boarded on a ship, flooded in desire
The crown on the ground, because no rule it sells
The irish boy went away
Towards Guayaquil
