The boys in tan,
gun in hand,
marching two by two.
The dogs of war,
trod across the sand,
they know not what they do.
The man in the high chair,
sends a message through the air,
this message isn't new.
It's us or them boys,
show them your new toys,
Turn their ancient cities,
and verdant fields,
into a blood and shrapnel stew.
Death is the name of the game,
yeah, I guess it is a shame,
but, what else can you do?
The pigs need their truffle feast,
this is the nature of the beast,
every bullet aids the turning of the *****.
You are the boys in tan,
and when foreign threats are removed,
come back home,
join the boys in blue,
and put your brothers beneath the boot.
You are the soul of civilization,
without you everything would crumble,
quicker than a foreign regime,
or the ranks of peaceful protesters,
who scatter like the sheep they are,
as you slam the baton down,
and open your mouth,
to receive your jerky treat.