[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…
