The Promised Land

I left my home in Gardabaer, Iceland

Sweden and England on my mind. 

I straddled that 737, rode him past the Faroes

on across the sky so fine. 

Straight off dad bought me a through plane ticket, 

ridin' across the Atlantic clean.

And I was on that early morning flyer out of Keflavik, 

smoking in to London's scene. 

Somebody help me get out of Iceland.

Just help me get to London Town. 

There are people there that care a little 'bout me.

And they won't let the poor girl down.

Sure as you're born they bought me a silk suit.

Put luggage in my hands.

And I woke up high just west of Scotland 

on a jet to the promised land.

Working on mum's breast a la carte.

Flying over to Britain, great.

When the pilot told us in thirteen minutes

he would set us at the terminal gate.

Swing low chariot, come down easy

taxi to the terminal zone.

Cut your engines, cool your wings

and let me make it to the changing room. 

London give me Reykjavik, Iceland

354 four ten o nine

Tell the folks this is the promised land callin'

and the poor girls on the line.

 

(Hail, hail my man, Chuck Berry!)