Deep in the jungle near Kerryduff,
We came to a clearing, and sure enough,
There it was: Tuten Carson's hidden tomb,
Stormount.

We found an ancient statue at the gate,
Tuten Carson himself, all full of hate,
We wandered up that concrete road,
Where the winds of change had long since blown.

We could tell by the bullet holes in the door,
The assembly in there wasn't meeting no more,
Wе walked across that great big room,
In the middlе of the chamber was the pharaoh's tomb.

On a Cyril Lord carpet three feet deep,
His possessions were piled in a great big heap,
You'd never believe what we did find,
There were stocks and shares of every kind.

A bullet-proof vest made of solid jade,
A personal gift that Whitelaw made,
But as we opened up the top,
"Holy God", says I, for we got a shock.

He was wearing a bowler hat made of solid gold,
A twist on his lips, but his feet were cold,
Up on the wall was the mummy's curse,
'Here lies Pharaoh Faulkner, one of the worst.'

The foreign speculator's pride,
They were making a fortune till he died,
Overthrown by the people in '71 AD,
After the demonstrations.

Those hieroglyphics on the wall,
Told the story of the big downfall,
Every year when the twelfth did come,
They put on a sash and beat a Lambeg drum.

"Remember 1690", were the cries,
The last time the workers in Belfast got a rise,
For fifty years they'd had their fun,
Till Stormount fell in '71.

They tried again in '73,
But the people said,
"No, we want to be free",
And they made it.

We'd solved the mystery of that ancient race,
Drowned like Atlantis without a trace,
The answer there was plain to see,
One land that enslaves another, themselves can never can never be free.