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You Can't Be Born a Soldier

There is not a barren sacred place.
A worthless corpse to fall into a pit,
A red rag to wrap around a hearse,
A soulful song to mute all evils and all woes,
 
Since you can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
You can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
 
There is not a sacred place without a foe.
Blindly, with a polished rifle stock,
Charge forth in a uniform without a hole,
With a dashing march to mute your grinding teeth,1
 
Since you can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
You can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
 
There is not a sacred place that's nice and clean.
Stinking winds are flooding on the shores,
Rotten ash, absorbed by the soil,
And tobacco shorting out our drunken noses,
 
Since you can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
You can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
 
There is not a sacred place devoid of sin.
Snatch a bite of a woman's scream - fucking great!
And a sip of honey brew to throw it up,
With a red flag to wipe away your heavy tears,
 
Since you can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
You can't be born a soldier,
But a soldier you can die.
 
  • 1. or, more literally, "the grinding of your teeth"
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