Sitting all alone, looking at the throne of the one I used to love
Sitting all alone, looking in a stone of my lovely Inca love

Oh, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu
Gun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu

The huntress stands, with peacock hands she'd take me to where she sighs
She sighs so deep, it rocks the river of her stomach sky

Oh, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu
Gun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu

Ata, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, uallpa, uallpa, yeah

The oval moon, it tans the faun who holds grapes for my love
Sitting all alone, sitting in the throne of my lovely Inca love

Tchak-tchun tchak-tchun tchak-tchun tchak-tchun

Oh, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu
Gun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, ladagun, lagu

Ata, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, uallpa, uallpa
Ata, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, Atahuallpa, uallpa, uallpa

Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare hela, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare hela, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna
Hare, hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna, uh
[Narration: John Peel]
Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes consuming the silent midnight woods. He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart of a marigold and let his molish imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and pirate pictures of rusted doubloons and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty muskets and goldfish gauntlets once worn by Henry Morgan

The lark awoke and doffed its plumed three cornered hat to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past the crested nest of the snoring cuckoo and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for friend Mole

Mole was on a marigold comedown and sulkily scraped bluebeat rhythms with his ground-digging paw

"Yes," he whispered, "Me and Li are going aquesting for the Lilly Pond of Fox Necks."

Li'll know all the mapping gen[??], so the mole, kneeling on the soft soil, said a morning prayer to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert trousers because his molish mind knew that praying was special

[Outro: Marc Bolan]
I come from a time where the burning of trees was a crime
I lived by a sea where to be was a thing of true joy
My people were fair and had sky in their hair
But now they're content to wear stars on their brows