Let me tell of a place in a country called Czech,
A proud Bohemian feast.
Cast your eyes high and crane your neck,
At the spires in Europe’s East.
Ancient roads on the river Vltava
Where artists, musicians can’t help but admire.
Compared, there’s no city in Europe they’d rather
And the hundred spires reach sky higher.
Castle up there, watch over the town.
A symbol of gothic, baroque with gold.
Stand grand on the hill, the jewel in the crown
And point ever higher, spires of old.
Stars and music light up the night.
To poets, romantics, their glow doth inspire.
Old master and muse, go forth and take flight,
Ascend in the way made clear by the spires.