Art thou a little young,
to be on the field of battle?
You hold in your hands the metal,
the twisted metal of a gun.
Art thou a little thing?
Your eyes are so carefree.
Soon you shall face the horrors,
that no imagination could ever think.
You laugh and joke in the fox hole,
that you dug for thee.
Here they come,
their shouts cry out,
coming for you and me.
Art thou a little young,
to fight a battle with these?
Please let me borrow your guns,
because you will never need these.
Weren’t supposed to be home,
joking with friends, making amends,
and finding one that will love thea?
From the fog in your eyes,
and the blood that won’t dry,
that shall never again be.