Another Christmas is coming and the CEO's travelling in private jets, working for one dollar a year but receiving three-hundred millions bonus.
As many soldiers returning from war with Purple Hearts Medals are coming to a home foreclusure because the greedy got away with it.
When the country will start to practice Semper Fidelis in return?

Pains of birth, the mothers are giving
more little soldiers for future wars,
as the factories are churning weapons,
expecting the little soldiers in uniform
to march defying death in no-mans-land,
for what? Just for thirty silver coins.

The Man Child is going to the bank
to hide his ill earned bloody gold,
and if there’s no need for more weapons…
wheel chairs for soldiers returning home
will pay for business mighty loses that
an eventual peace treaty will condone.

Hear the little soldiers singing lullabies
all dressed with the most cute uniforms,
sailors predominant, but one or two Army
in light blue smarts, one, as a flying boy,
they are the seed of not far away future
where there they will have not a voice.

The Man Child will like to be President,
the most important position in the world,
he could then command ten thousand men
to battle so the job he gave can be done,
but forget if you didn’t duck the bullets, that
he take care of the cripples returning home.

The sound of wheel chairs and of crutches,
the march of the never wanted back at home,
asking their country at every Christmas
if compassion and duty the land had lost,
as politicos use every trick on the books, so,
when the call’s coming, not for their sons.

The Man Child don’t want round tables
with their inane discussions to avoid a war,
why have the strongest military might
if your generals cannot use “The Bomb”
when you haven’t no more dumb soldiers
and the job you gave them has to be done.

The Man Child is going to the bank,
to hide his ill earned bloody gold.