| Born to the sound of gunshot fire
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| Shells scatter the floor
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| And in the distance there’s the chiming of bells
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| From empty churches where no one worships anymore
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| And the feeling in the air is a feeling of war
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| You can die in their hands but not of your own
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| They declared it while we slept on nightmares of death deprivation
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| Unable to put an end to this painful ringing in the ears that hear nothing
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| We can’t hear nothing
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| But propaganda and commercials, sermons and machine gun fire
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| Loaded and cocked, the guns in our hands
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| Serving only one function
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| Only one function
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| And suicide is not an option: it’s illegal and punishable by death
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| Suicide’s not an option |