THE HOLE IN THE MAP
Music, Russell Ferrante/Lyrics, Lorraine Feather
Slightly below the Equator,
Beneath a scalding sun
Waits a counterfeit paradise
And sure oblivion,
Or so they told our hero,
In 1925,
As he went back to the river
That ate so many alive.
It starts as a trickle in the clouds and snow,
With more than an America still to go.
Steamrollers into the sea,
Wide as New York City.
Pa**able only in the worst of the heat,
In the winter it rises 40 feet.
The green hell is a heady trap,
So dont fall down
The hole in the map.
Youd bet such a forest would feed you,
You would lose that bet.
You thought you learned about fortitude
As a gentleman cadet!
The painful pranks, the floggings,
Were bliss compared to this,
As you hack through the lianas
Where hanging boas hiss.
There are bugs thatll k** you with a single bite,
Turn your cotton britches to threads in a night,
Homicidal gnats no bigger than seeds,
Cynanide-squirting millipedes.
Still you know you love it and you wont be swayed
Though you never are fully unafraid.
Hits your heart like a thunderclap,
So dont fall down
The hole in the map
Back in the comfort of Devon,
You sweeten your tea and sigh
Free now to sleep till eleven,
And watch the old world go by.
You smile at your civilized heaven,
And say that at last, youll stay,
But close by the gates
The Amazon waits
To quietly drag you away.
Drag you away,
Back to the river.
Its pa**able only in the worst of the heat,
In the winter it rises 40 feet.
The green hell is a heady trap.
Dont fall .
There are bugs thatll k** you with a single bite,
Turn your cotton britches to threads in a night,
Homicidal gnats no bigger than seeds,
Cynanide-squirting millipedes.