Oh sing for me the song,
Of lost Galandahar,
And of the ancient people,
Who must still be living there.

 Galandahar lies high,
Well upon the Northern Plains,
In a land not known to many,
For others never came.

But the legends are well known,
To those who sail the seas,
And the stories told of old Galandahar,
Are carried along on the breeze.

Hair as white as polar ice,
And fair skin that you can almost see through,
They are as tall and thin as a wizard might be,
And as wise they certainly are too.

They are known to fish for sustenance,
But the remainder of their time they sing,
It leads to a countenance of serenity,
A product of the peace it brings.

They live forever,
Or so the stories say,
High on the Northern Plains,
Treasuring every day.

And once a week they gather,
To sing their song of peace,
From high atop the Northern Plains,
They send their message into space.

And it’s been heard by others,
Who have traveled close enough to hear,
And they know they face no peril,
From those who sing a song so dear.

So, sing me the song of lost Galandahar,
And tell the children of their ways,
Tell them of how they will protect our planet,
Until the end of days.