They trained you well
To jump at command
A new born killer
Gun in hand
Aged eighteen
Drinks with the lads
Band of brothers
In foreign lands.
You kill for pay
Not because of will
Those who sent you
Watching still
From far away
Their money to count
War means profit
Patriotism they shout.
To return
To home once more
There are so many
Without a front door
Time it does not
Wash blood away
Nor grow new legs
Is what I say.