(Music is deceptively smooth: a slow, sinister bassline; dissonant, loungy organ chords like a corrupted cocktail piano; clean but tense guitar stabs. Vocals are delivered in a deadpan, almost documentary-style narration.)

(Verse 1)
White sands… blue waves…
New beaches… on old graves…
They’re building paradise where the martyrs lie
With a view of the sea and a clear blue sky…

(Verse 2)
Sip a cocktail… take a dip…
Don’t mind the ghosts… or the partnership…
Of bankers and generals who draw the maps…
And sell sunscreen… over blood-soaked gaps…

(Chorus – Music becomes slightly more unhinged, organ swirling like heat haze)
Gaza Riviera…
What a lovely era…
Just don’t ask what’s under the sand…
Or who signed the deed to this land…

(Verse 3)
“What’s that between your toes, my son?
No, not the sand… when all’s said and done…
Is that a fragment of a child’s skull?
Many died here… but the sea is so full…”

(Bridge – Music breaks down to bass and a nervous hi-hat)
They’ll tell you it was always bare…
That no one lived… no one cared…
Just scrubland and trouble… and stones…
Now it’s paradise… with white beach loans…

(Outro – Voice drops to a grim whisper)
Splendid vacation…
No need for explanation…
Just smile…
And try not to step…
On the dead…
