This man, oh, he fights all alone.
He’s fighting so far from home.
Every day he bears his gun, he risks his life,
Fighting in hellish worlds plagued with strife.
He’s not in this for your revolution.
He’s just here of his own volition.
He doesn’t care if things get worse.
He just wants your gold in his purse.
Each and every time he fires,
Death comes, hangs ‘round the shires.
He’s borne witness to immense misery,
But after so much, rarely is he teary.
His brothers and comrades fell all around,
But he has time for neither cry nor frown.
In the town, he’s burnt, he’s looted, he’s *****;
And, into the night, his shadow’s shifted shape.
The dogs of war, they’ve never stopped;
Even when they’re sliced or chopped.
They just go to hell, where they regroup,
Then come back as yet more troop.
Time and guilt erode this man’s visage;
He’s still haunted by infernal image.
He still remembers his prime, young days;
Oh, how he wasted his youthful phase.
It's about an African mercenary who expends all of his youth fighting meaningless bush wars in the Congo.
