We march on unceasingly.
Slaves of the master of puppets,
We heed his call unquestioningly.
Will it matter if we die?

Born to die.
Hearing your lies.
We, the disposable heroes, march on.
With bodies of Kevlar and feet of clay.

Dying for your lies.
Hidden from your eyes.
Clutching our guns.
We march on in the desert heat.
Like sacrificial lambs to the slaughter.