There's a man dying on the side of a dusty grimy road,
yellow ribbon on his sleeve, badges stapled to his bones.
He crawls to a cardboard box, trains his eyes to the sun
chokes: "Sir, you must give me some bread for my gun."

We were war, we were warriors.
We were counting bullets, counting sheep
the blood of brothers clinging to our feet,
watching bodies turn over in their sleep.

Wide-eyed freckled innocence lost its soul in the haze.
Your first words were "Kill thine enemy;" outside, fire fell like rain.
Boiled blood beating in such a full heart filled such miseries in their veins.
We were born as crippled lovers and we died with lungs of hate.

Settling scores, we were warriors.
We were counting losses, counting words
the screams of companions remaining unheard,
beneath what our leaders call "A Better World."