I am the son of a grassland farmer Western oklahoma nineteen forty three I always felt grateful to live in the land of the free I gave up my father to south korea The mind of my brother to vietnam Now there's a banker who says i must give up my land There are four generations of blood in this topsoil Four generations of love on this farm Before i give up i would gladly give up my right arm
What are we making weapons for Why keep on feeding the war machine We take it right out of the mouths of our babies Take it away from the hands of the poor Tell me, what are we making weapons for
I had a son and my son was a soldier He was so like my father, he was so much like me To be a good comrade was the best that he dreamed he could be He gave up his future to revolution His life to a battle that just can't be won For this is not living, to live at the point of a gun I remember the nine hundred days of leningrad The sound of the dying, the cut of the cold I remember the moments i prayed i would never grow old
What are we making weapons for Why keep on feeding the war machine We take it right out of the mouths of our babies Take it away from the hands of the poor Tell me, what are we making weapons for