In the Barony of Angels, sure you canna breathe the air,
Even on the days that Angels think the weather's passing fair,
For your eyes will lsmart like fire on the tourney field down there
As the tears go streaming down.
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution, as the tears go streaming down.

In the Barony of Angels you must hope your foemen yield,
For even on a clear day you can't see across the field,
And all the fighters' helmets are hermetically sealed
With a built-in air supply.
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution, get a built-in air supply.

In the Barony of Angels all the ladies wear long veils,
Although you can't imagine all the sewing this entails,
But they serve to hide the gasmasks that were bought at surplus sales
To filter the filthy air.
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution, better filter that filthy air!

Before I went to Angels, O my skin was passing fair,
But then I made an error and exposed it to the air.
Sure you better use great caution if you're visiting down there
And beware the dark green air!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution, O beware the dark green air!

There was beauty in the foothills long before the Angels came,
But now no one can see them, and it surely is a shame.
Now no matter where you liok, the vista is the same:
Just a wall of red-brown air!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution!
Grungy, Grungy! What Pollution, just a wall of red-brown air!