Natasha Kirke (2/3/95 / London)

Soldier, Soldier, born for war
Shoots a man and kills more and more
Soldier, soldier, a man with steel,
Born to kill, born to die.
Does he not regret? Does he not sin?
Why oh why can he not fly
Away from all the troubles he holds?
Why oh why can he not get away
From all the death and all the woe he beholds?
Gentleman, Gentleman, oh, poor old gentleman
Given the title of a killer of thousands by the men of power
Now he lies, in a trench six feet below
Beyond life, beyond the living.

Are these the men who died in honour?
No, they died in vain
Slaves of greed and war.
Only so much blood can be drawn from an arm
But gallons are drawn from armies, each fighting day.