Who calls the shots, who pulls the strings, who does the deadly deeds, who takes the prize?
Today, lives are shaped by powers we fail to see,
stealthily fashioning our fears, forming our hates,
binding us to a life on bended knee.
Invoking demons on a distant shore
insidiously fanning the flames of fear
'till hate becomes a roar. Then
ours the hand that holds the gun
theirs the finger that points
their's the prize when the deed is done;
ours to lose our loves to the lonely grave
drowning our hearts in a sea of tears,
draining the world of the young and the brave
who, believing they answer a country's call
desert lovers' arms for death's embrace
victims of another cambist brawl.