A boy in the field,
By the age of eighteen.
A flag for a shield,
And a crowd he's never seen.


The boy whose life was ruined by war,
Passed down a hate he has no use for.
A country scarred by the recent recession,
Houses todays funeral procession.


The boy looks on at his father's new bed,
So many questions, housed in his head.
"Why are we fighting?" he thinks to himself.
His father as fresh as the frame on the shelf.


Hours run by, but the boy is still standing.
Visions in his head of planes crash landing.
"I have nothing against them, but this I must do."
Chasing after his unchangeable view.


He won't stop, until the war is won.
Feeding the fire, like father like son.



Generations of hate, forever to come.
Like father like son,
     Like father like son.