Living in the Congo,
wanting to get out.
Constant gun shots sounding,
too much death to count.

The youngest of four,
my brothers all look after me.
But once they're handed a gun,
no one can set me free.

I am too small,
to hold a gun and fight.
They take me from my brothers,
in the darkness of the night.

I wake too much confusion,
youngsters like me shake with fear.
They hand us each a whistle,
I struggle to hold back a tear.

The front lines of war needs victims,
lives to throw away.
Too small to hold a gun,
blowing a whistle I'll die today.

The enemy will come, guns blazing,
children will start to fall.
Our job is to die,
our purpose is to stall.

My home is the Congo,
Where I've lived and where I'll die.
Help the children, who must take my place,
I’ll be watching from the sky.