Gas, gas quick boys!
We feel like we're treated like toys,
Before me, foam at the mouth, white eye,
As I watch the rest of them die.

They try to run but have now where to go,
He gets stood in front and we're told to throw,
The chant goes on 'die you might as well **** him',
For him his world goes dim.

Know one knows who really did it,
But i can smell it from my gun, I did it,

Rat's, lice, bugs oh the daily joys,
We feel like we're treated like toys,
Mud up to hip,
All in this little ditch.

We just want to go home,
But we stand here like clones,
No rights, no choice, no life,
Without us everyone will feel the pain of his knife.
Written By Katie Leszman