They die for their cause,
We die for ours;
Our deaths are propitiated
Like those of star-crossed lovers.
They kill us,
We kill them;
They win some,
We win some.
Thus we shun the cowardice
Of a pusillanimous peace;
Heroes do not fold their arms—
They die in bloodied grace.
There are those who would conclude
Our dance of kindred hate
In some petty, effeminate truce
That belittles our heroic fate;
Thus our respective national pride
Is our adrenaline feeder;
We die so our petty lives may have
Some value for our mighty leader.
There will be time for that embrace
With the enemy I just killed
When in a promised paradise
A common field is tilled.