| Who taught you these things, wounding crippling
|
| I’d say that you’re an effective machine, you say
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| That you’re clean, but maybe you’re the same underneath
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| She saw her son off at the train platform
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| It was April 24, her hug that day
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| Was not the same as the ones before
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| These fields are haunted by, a thousand men who died
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| To stop this Holy War, to stop this Holy War
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| I could whisper their names, I could shout to the ceiling
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| But something has to change, too many people died believing
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| That they would see the day, when you’re just a pile of gears, harmless after
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| all these years
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| Crippling Machine, -chine
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| Belgium is cold, but not as cold as an icy stare of self-piety
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| That’ll shoot down a plane, tear out my tongue, I swear
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| Blood still speaks. |
| In the silence as they raise the flag
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| They shoot the shots, our young hero is dead, lying peacefully
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| What he had to do, he already did
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| In the aftermath, of motors, extra parts
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| Someone is going to try to salvage your heart
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| But, I don’t care, It’s your eyes I’ll consider
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| Burning first, then your fists, your fingers
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| Flanders, Belgium has killed a lot of men
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| But not as many as your religion
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| You’re not escaping the chains you force us to wear
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| Hate doesn’t respect you
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| Hate doesn’t care
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| What exactly do you fight for?
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| I’ll tear you apart, no diplomacy
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| I’ll make sure I sabotage all circuitry
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| Till one day, you and I stop this war |