| For whom the bells toll
|
| When sentenced to die
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| The stuttering rifles
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| Will stifle the cry
|
| The monstrous anger
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| The fear’s rapid rattle
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| A desert inferno
|
| Kids dying like cattle
|
| Don’t tell me
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| We’re not prepared
|
| I’ve seen today’s marine
|
| He’s eighteen and he’s eager
|
| He can be quite mean
|
| No mock’ries for them
|
| No prayers or bells
|
| The demented choirs
|
| The wailing of shells
|
| The boys holding candles
|
| On untraveled roads
|
| The fear spreads like fire
|
| As shrapnel explodes
|
| I think it’s wrong
|
| To conscript our youth
|
| Against their will
|
| When plenty of our citizenry
|
| Really like to kill
|
| What sign posts will lead
|
| To armageddon’s fires
|
| What bugles will call them
|
| From crowded grey shires
|
| The women sit quiet
|
| With death on their minds
|
| A slow dusk descending
|
| The drawing of blinds
|
| Make the hunters all line up
|
| It’s their idea of fun
|
| And let those be forgiven
|
| Who never owned a gun
|
| Was it him or me
|
| Or the wailing of the dead
|
| The laughing soldiers
|
| Cast their lots
|
| And you can cut the dread |