I’ll drop the bomb on Sunday, I won’t say that i’m scared. Resistance is no tactic, when you're completely unprepared.
Surrender happens naturally, when everyone is dead. And so, ‘uh oh’ we’re letting go, your life’s turned on it’s head.
I’m both the aircraft and the bomber, we’re one I gladly say. No matter what, with all strings cut, i’m still your, Enola Gay.
Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Their also names as mine. Part human, part war monster. Shooting, even though we’re blind.
Paul Warfield Tibbets, and your Enola Gay. Tell me which ones the villain, and which one saved the day.
One was built to drop a bomb, it didn’t ask for this. The other chose to hit a button, knowing that he wouldn’t miss.
One was metal in the earth, before the war began. One was a baby then a child, then from the truth he ran.
Not looking for a white flag, when all the fabric’s stained. For battlegrounds, from funeral mounds, no surrender can remain.