March on up the Congo tapping rubber for an absent King.
Fingers shredding, children snatched and still they keep us marching on.
Soldiers feasting in luxury.
Natives dying in the dirt.
Hands smashed up with rifles against trees, just corpses marching on.
Work them hard, all day long.
They're not people, it's not wrong.
Pass the blame to the top.
Follow orders. Not your fault. Brutal torture without thought.
Статистика страницы на pesni.guru ▼
Просмотров сегодня: 1