| Farewell my wistful Saigon bride
|
| I’m going out to stem the tide
|
| A tide that never saw the seas
|
| It flows through jungles, round the trees
|
| Some say it’s yellow, some say red
|
| It will not matter when we’re dead
|
| How many dead men will it take
|
| To build a dike that will not break?
|
| How many children must we kill
|
| Before we make the waves stand still?
|
| Though miracles come high today
|
| We have the wherewithal to pay
|
| It takes them off the streets you know
|
| To places they would never go alone
|
| It gives them useful trades
|
| The lucky boys are even paid
|
| Men die to build their Pharoah’s tombs
|
| And still and still the teeming wombs
|
| How many men to conquer Mars
|
| How many dead to reach the stars?
|
| Farewell my wistful Saigon bride
|
| I’m going out to stem the tide
|
| A tide that never saw the seas
|
| It flows through jungles, round the trees
|
| Some say it’s yellow, some say red
|
| It will not matter when we’re dead |