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Guns On The Roof

By
Guns On The Roof

Bodies, Bodies for the war machine.

Looking for truth, truth you can glean.

Dead young men whose corpses you've seen,

Covered in the newspaper's glossy sheen.

Wreaths of lies covering the growing sighs

And the bleeding skies.

You poor? Want money?

Come to me and lay down your life honey.

Walk through the landmines while it's still sunny.

Arab, white, black or Latino,

Let's see how much it is you really know

Before you go in the ground, buried down low.

Give me your body.

Give me your soul.

But sir, the gun it's shoddy.

Shut up, Chicano and clean out your bowl.





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