| My cousin is in Colombia
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| Hunting down the rebels
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| Over fields of bright and shiny coca
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| Over the jungle floor
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| One-handing a 32
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| He says: «bring her down low now, I’m ready to go.»
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| «I hunt kids in camouflage
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| Rain down bullets in flight, white light
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| Barefoot boys run for your lives.»
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| But you can’t be nice
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| You put your gun to their head
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| And you pull back the pin
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| And you can’t be good
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| My friend is based in Afghanistan
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| He goes from cave to cave and pulls the trigger
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| At the first sight of a man
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| It’s total anarchy
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| Shooting tracer bullets at night
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| A high and holy patrol into poppy fields
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| But you can’t be good
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| You hold up the bloody knife
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| And let it shine in the sun
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| You gotta be everywhere
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| I’m a guard in Guantanamo
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| I bring the prisoners in
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| The hoods come off and torture slowly begins
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| The screams I’ve overheard
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| It’d fuck up a weaker man
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| But I’m cold, I’m so untouchable
|
| And you can’t be nice
|
| I got a flak jacket
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| On my soul with me tonight
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| And you can’t be good |