Our marching feet cut a track in the dirt, half way to hell; god damn, is this going to hurt?

There's hardly a ladder out, in this world of rat'smen,
cut into two, we're already walking in this grave.

We're all the knives in each others' backs, us,
The dying and the brave.

Eyes awake, wide and stern;
Livid and lidless lullabies.

If I lived life of callous, sparks, and boots,
this maw is my silver prize.

Javelin, she falls shorter than
the temperature in greek hell.

our brothers, the three hundred strong, 
bled like men, to toll that bell.

But what is this calamity,
to which we heir as winners?

cowards bleed a cooler shade,
green-blue shame as all us sinners.

Purebred nothings, living in our fathers' shadows.