To fight is to live; to cower is to die,

And so they drag our children, one by one, away,

So that in dirt and filth they will lie,

The steady bombs their loving lullabies, their blanket the ashes of color gray.

"Fight and make your nation proud,

And, in return, a hero you'll be," is what they say,

But no one ever stops to think about the opposing side,

That they might too have a family waiting by the bay

That pray for their safe return as down their faces colorless tears slide.

No one ever thinks of those they kill;

They only think of the bloody glory of an endless war,

And they slaughter children like sadistic butchers until they've had their fill

Believing for all of time in the lies of a glorious war.

Mothers shed their endless tears

When they see the solemn face peering at them from their doorstep

Coming to tell them those words they most fear:

"I'm sorry, ma'am," they will say, "your son is dead."

And like all the other mothers in the world they will weep

Bitter, bitter tears, and broken sobs, so pitiful,

Will rip from their throats and they will brokenly scream

"Why?" even though they know there is no answer, and, in mourning, their senses will dull.

And the young men who go for glory

Will soon realize as they see their friends blown to pieces

And see their hands as that of a murderer's, so vile and bloody,

That, once the truth comes to light and war is seen for what it is, all pride, all joy, ceases.

Then every night they'll wake up screaming,

Terror engulfing them once again,

As war and its horrors for all eternity in their minds will be streaming,

Their dreams now nightmares, and hang their heads in regret and ceaseless pain.

Where is their pride?

In metals of honor and speeches of thanks.

Where is the glory of their fight?

In nightmares and screams and memories of the time the spoils of war coaxed them to fall, the words having come from the tongue of a snake's.

And round and round goes the cycle,

And, like time, war will once again rear its ugly head,

Greedily stripping us bare all the while we take away, like a spoiled child, making us brittle,

And we'll only laugh and keep on fighting, our words of disapproval, of pain, of grief, forevermore left unsaid.