Barely of the age, They willingly participate in such unholy rage,
Sucked into a world, So similar to toddlers,
Monkey say monkey do, brainwashed to do what they say.
Their only reassurance, hundreds of kilometres away,
Praying, Pleading of their return.
Surrounded by empty corpses, Avoiding an inevitable fate.
You may call it a game, you may say that they’ll only pain would be a forgotten leg
But the kind of pain these boys face, Is not a wounded leg, an injured hand, an afflicted twitch.
Its The ghost of their mates breathing down their spines, It's the thought forever stuck in their heads “Why them, Why not me”
Every corner they turn it hisses at them.
Every step forward pushes them 2 steps back.
‘ntill them can't take it and finally give in too the man in the hooded suit
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