| And the chocolate in the children’s eyes will never understand
|
| When you’re white boots marching in a yellow land
|
| Red, blow the bugles of the dawn
|
| The morning has arrived, you must be gone
|
| And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
|
| Like cold whores following tired armies
|
| Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side
|
| And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide
|
| For the colors of a civil war are louder than commands
|
| When you’re white boots marching in a yellow land
|
| Blow them from the forest and burn them from your sight
|
| Tie their hands behind their back and question through the night
|
| But when the firing squad is ready
|
| They’ll be spitting where they stand
|
| At the white boots marching in a yellow land
|
| Red, blow the bugles of the dawn
|
| The morning has arrived, you must be gone
|
| And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
|
| Like cold whores following tired armies
|
| The comic and the beauty queen are dancing on the stage
|
| Raw recruits are lining up like coffins in a cage
|
| We’re fighting in a war, we lost before the war began
|
| We’re the white boots marching in a yellow land
|
| And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
|
| Like cold whores following tired armies |