On the hill there stood a soldier, thinking about his life,
wondering about the safety, of his children and his wife.
Every day the trigger, on the rifle that he holds,
releives a few more bodies, of their very souls.
And when this man comes home, to the woman that he loves,
assuming that he survives, when push comes to shove;
Can he still be gentle? A loving, caring man?
For he has been a soldier, and blood has drenched his hands.
How long can he remember, the happiness he had,
As he takes the lifes of foreign husbands, sons, and even dads.
This was not his descision, and who would care to make,
a call of such precision, with peace and blood at stake.
You and I, we know the answer.
We see him every day.
That evil, well dressed murderer,
whom always gets his way.
Some people fly his banner, play his dirty game,
but those that are the wisest, curse his very name.
That name is politician, that game is played for cash.
His expertise is lies, but his heart's a bloody gash.
The soldier follows orders, he doesnt have a choice,
He knows the politician, will never hear his voice,
and the voice of all the children, their fathers and their moms.
The only sound He wants to hear, are those... money making bombs. |
