Tricot

a twenty five piece tank armed to fire with one command
the whole armada shot a hundred yard flame game
an army, a cause, a fight
they haven´t had a minute to chose
crazy 'bout a thousand pages of a dead scared faces with no names to tell the story
just a number on the bloody uniform

it´s like to pretend, it´s like a game
get your cards and roll your dices
win one more territory
while the generals drink champagne

joystick commanded troops
brainwashed into a fake truth
killing robots, programed tools
innocense lost, rampage assumed

dehumanizing effects
booming, gloriously profane
they lost their souls in one man's name
locked inside a taught persecution mania
these boys became killing machines
humanity is gone, holly riffle is my lord.