Look at our children
Marching off to war.
Trudging to the beat
Endless rows of four.
When they shall return
It will be only rows of two.
All with bloody hands
And their faces a paler hue.

Look at our children
Marching off to war.
Wooden guns in their hands
Made out off two-by-fours.
It looks like a simple game
Like they're going to have fun
But those are real bullets,
Inside their wooden guns.
By the time they'll come back
Their childhood will be long gone.

Look at our future!
Look at our past!
Can you really tell me
How long will all this last?
Look at our future!
Look at our present!
It really doesn't matter
If you're a nobleman or a peasant.

Look at our children
Marching to their end.
Isn't it silly?
Dying for a piece of land.