Workers fight, to keep their jobs
As poverty knocks at their door,
Like cold machines, they blindly accept,
And work for contracts of war.
The wings of death they fly, arming for piece work
The wings of death they fly, build your own death.
Morals are now trivial commodities,
Necessary work for the company to survive.
War is an acceptable part of the job,
Building bombers on the breadline.
As poverty knocks at their door,
Like cold machines, they blindly accept,
And work for contracts of war.
The wings of death they fly, arming for piece work
The wings of death they fly, build your own death.
Morals are now trivial commodities,
Necessary work for the company to survive.
War is an acceptable part of the job,
Building bombers on the breadline.